


Fer Ciel

by Kitty_Kinneas, Valmasy



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe, F/M, Homophobia, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Racism, Violence, offensive language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 43,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3141851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitty_Kinneas/pseuds/Kitty_Kinneas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valmasy/pseuds/Valmasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The adopted son of the most powerful man in town, Steve Rogers-Stark left Heaven, Louisiana to make a name for himself. Now a crisis has brought him home to an ailing father, a logging empire on the brink of disaster, and a secret in the bayou that threatens his very way of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ornery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware this story contains period-typical racism and homophobia.  
> This story is based loosely on a novel by Sandra Brown 'Slow Heat in Heaven'.  
> Special thanks to brandnewfashion for the beta. I know we were awful to work with.  
> Thank you for reading and we hope you enjoy!

Steve was dozing, a product of afternoon drowsiness and the very fine lunch he'd had back at the house. His arm was bent, tucked under his head and a faint breeze ruffled his hair. It was relaxing, easy to give in to the sleepiness that caught at him, until his arm began to tingle. He stretched, arching his back and opened his eyes.

At first he wasn't sure the man was real, but a trick of his unfocussed eyes or the heavy drowsiness brought on by the midsummer warmth. He blinked several times, but the image remained.

The man was silhouetted against the vibrant reds and golds the sun bled across the sky as it drew low against the horizon, making it impossible to discern his identity. He was definitely real, however, Steve decided after a moment.

Like the pines, the man was motionless, and he seemed perfectly at ease among them, almost as though he was one of them. Steve thought fancifully that if he waited long enough, Spanish moss would begin to cling to the man's arms, as it did to the branch above his head, looking more desolate than usual in the humid heat.

The unmoving form was vitally male, despite that he clearly possessed a slightly smaller stature than his own. And his stance – yes – his stance was definitely, arrogantly masculine; one knee bent to throw his hip slightly off center.

It was a little intimidating to wake up from a nap and discover someone standing not twenty yards away, watching you with the silence and patience of a predator...

Most disturbing was the garden hoe that lay across his shoulders. His wrists were hooked over the handle, his hands dangling carelessly. Such a sight was common in rural Louisiana during the summertime, but Steve had come from London. There, it would attract attention.

Mind you, there wasn't so much as an onion patch on this section of Fer Ciel. The fields where sharecroppers cultivated vegetables were miles away, so it was alarming. No, not... alarming... but it deserved a little caution. He wasn't the same little boy he'd been when he left Fer Ciel all those years ago – he could handle himself. But the sun was going down, he was alone and, relatively speaking, a long way from the house. Unarmed besides.

Steve knew he should challenge him, demand to know who he was and what he was doing on his property, but he did nothing. Perhaps it was because the man looked more a part of Fer Ciel than Steve ever felt he could be. He almost seemed to blend in, where Steve seemed out of place and conspicuous by comparison.

He didn't know how long they'd been staring at each other – at least he thought they were staring at each other, but it was difficult to tell since Steve couldn't distinguish his face, much less what he was looking at so intently. Instinct told him, though, that the man _was_ watching him, and he had been for quite some time. This unnerving thought goaded him to act and he sat up.

The man started towards him. His footsteps hardly rustled the ankle-deep grass as, moving sinuously, he slid the hoe off his shoulders. All the self-defence instructions Steve had ever learned fled him. He couldn't move, couldn't speak. He sucked in a breath to force words out, head tipping back as the man approached, but his tongue froze to the suddenly-dry roof of his mouth.

Instinctively, Steve shrank back against the massive tree trunk, hands gripping the bark to push himself to his feet. But he didn't move and his last impression before his eyes squeezed shut of their own accord was of the bloodied sunlight striking the sharpened blade of the hoe as it began to arc downward. There was a thunk and he waited for pain, injury, blood. But it never came.

“Get your nap out, _bougre_?”

Steve blinked his eyes open, suddenly embarrassed by his inaction. “What?”

“Get your nap out, Li'l Stevie?”

Steve frowned at the old nickname, shading his eyes against the sunset, but he still couldn't distinguish the man's face. It was entirely unfair, because obviously the man knew him. His first language had been a Cajun dialect, almost a caress. Other than that, he didn't have a clue who he was. But he knew snakes slithered out of the bayou. He'd been taught from infancy to consider them all poisonous.

The hoe's blade was resting where it had bitten into the grass, the man leaning lazily on it. His hands were folded innocently over the end of the handle, chin propped on his knuckles, but for some reason, the benign stance made him no less threatening.

“How do you know me?” Steve demanded.

The man's mouth shifted slightly, the slow curve far from a bona fide smile. It was too sardonic to pass for genuine.

“Why, it's common knowledge round Heaven that Li'l Stevie Rogers came home from Londontown.”

“Yes, because of my father's heart attack.”

The man shrugged, supremely indifferent to Steve's comings and goings. He glanced at the rapidly sinking sun.

“I don't repeat gossip, Mr. Rogers. I only listen to it. And I only pay attention when I hear something that could affect me.”

“What are you doing here?” Steve cut in.

A smirk as the man's head came back around.

“Watching you sleep.”

Steve refused to blush.

“Before that,” he said sharply.

“Gathering roots.” The man slapped the small leather pouch attached to his belt.

“Roots? What kind of roots.”

“Doesn't matter. You've never heard of 'em.”

The man's cavalier attitude irritated Steve

“You're trespassing on private property. You've got no business on Fer Ciel.”

Insects hummed noisily in the following silence and the man's eyes never wavered from Steve's face. When he answered, his voice was soft, elusive.

“Oh, but I do, _bougre_. Fer Ciel is my home.”

Steve stared at him, frowning.

“Who _are_ you?” he demanded again.

“You don't remember?”

He shifted, bringing his face into clarity and comprehension dawned a moment later. Steve could've kicked himself. “Carter?” he whispered, then swallowed, not really relieved to know who he was talking to. “Anthony Carter?”

“ _Bien_! You recognise me now!”

“The sun was in my eyes. And it's been years since I saw you.”

“And then you had good reason not to remember...” Carter grunted with satisfaction when Steve had the grace to look away, embarrassed. “It took you so long! How did you recognise me in the end?”

“You're the only person living on Fer Ciel who isn't...”

“A Stark brat? Not any more.”

Steve ducked his head a little, unsettled by being alone with Anthony Carter. For as long as he could remember, Steve's father had forbidden he and his brother, Bucky, from even speaking to the older boy.

Carter's mother was the mysterious Cajun woman, Margaret Carter who went by “Peggy” and lived in a shanty in the bayou which wound in and about the forested acreage of Fer Ciel. As a boy, Carter had access to the outlying areas but had never been allowed to come this close to the house. Not wanting to take issue with that just yet, Steve asked politely; “Your mother, how is she?”

“She died.”

His blunt reply startled Steve. Carter's face was inscrutable in the twilight, but even had it been high noon, Steve doubted his expression would have given away what he was thinking. He'd always had a smart mouth, but he never said anything of real depth about himself. He was as mysterious as his mother. But now that smart mouth was saying _nothing_ , which was weird.

“I didn't know,” Steve said awkwardly when the silence stretched too long.

“It was a while ago.”

Steve swatted a mosquito that landed on the side of his neck. “I'm sorry.”

“You'd better get home. The mosquitoes will eat you alive.”

Carter reached out towards Steve, who regarded the hand as something dangerous, as loath to touch it as he would be to pet a water moccasin. But it would be unspeakably rude not to let the man help him up. Once before, he had trusted him, and Steve hadn't come to any harm then...

He lad his hand in Carter's. His palm felt tough as leather. There were raised calluses at the bases of the fingers that closed warmly around his own. The instant he was on his feet, Steve took his hand back.

Busily dusting off the back of his slacks to cover the awkward moment, Steve said; “Last I heard, you were just out of Fort Polk and on your way to Turkey.” Carter said nothing and Steve glanced at him. “You went?”

“ _Oui_.” A terse, singular reply.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Not long enough.”

“Well... it's... good you made it back,” Steve said haltingly. “We lost too many over there.”

Carter shrugged.

“Guess I was a better fighter.” His lip curled into a facsimile of a smile, a bitter thing. “But then, I always had to be.”

Steve wasn't about to address that. In fact, he was trying to think of something to say that would graciously end the uncomfortable conversation. Before he did, Carter reached out towards him.

The backs of Carter's fingers were rough, but their touch was careful as they whisked across Steve's exposed throat and down along the open 'v' of his shirt. He looked for Steve's reaction with frank interest, gaze predatory, arrogant. He knew exactly what he was doing, had brazenly comitted the unpardonable – He'd touched Steven Rogers-Stark... and was _daring_ him to complain about it.

He opened his mouth to do just that when Carter cut across him.

“They know the best places to bite,” he said, as if brushing away a mosquito was reason enough for his touch.

Steve pretended to be unmoved by Carter's knowing stare.

“You're as ornery as ever, aren't you?”

“I wouldn't want to disappoint you by changing.”

“I couldn't care less.”

“You never did,” Carter replied easily.

Steve's posture stiffened and he drew to his slightly taller height. But it only seemed to amuse Carter. “I need to get back to the house. It's supper time. Good seeing you, Mr. Carter.”

“How is he?”

Steve was caught a little off guard by this out-of-the-blue question.

“Who, my father?”

Carter nodded.

“I haven't seen him today. I'm going to the hospital after supper. I heard he had a comfortable night and these days, that's something to be grateful for.” Then in his most refined, 'Sunday-company' voice, he added; “I'll tell him you inquired, Mr. Carter.”

The Cajun's laugh was sudden and harsh, startling a bird into flight above them. “Don't think that'd be a very good idea. Not unless you want the old man to croak.”

Steve calculated Carter was approaching forty, so he should know better than to be so flippant about such an ill man. His manners hadn't improved with maturity. He was as coarse, rude and undisciplined as he'd been in his youth. His mother had exercised no control over him whatsoever. She had let him run wild. He was constantly into mischief that had ceased to be cute by the time he reached the later levels of schooling where he quickly became the scourge of the teachers despite his quick mind and obvious intellect. Heaven, Louisiana had spawned quite the hell-raiser in Anthony Carter.

Steve sniffed.

“I'll say good evening, Mr. Carter.”

“Tony.” He executed a clipped, mocking bow. “Good evening, Mr. Rogers.”

Steve did his best not to scowl at the incorrect name, instead giving a short nod more characteristic of his brother than him. He bent to gather his folded jacket and tie and turned in the direction of the house. He was aware of To- _Carter_ watching him. As soon as he was a safe distance away and beneath the deep shadows of the trees, he glanced back.

Carter had propped himself against an oak tree which half a dozen men standing hand-to-hand couldn't have spanned. A match sparked and flared in the darkness, briefly illuminating Carter's face when he lifted it to light his cigarette. He fanned out the match and the scent of sulfur reached out between them.

Carter drew deeply on the cigarette. The end of it glowed hot and red; a single beckoning point in the gathering darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch  
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	2. Propriety

People said there was hardship during the war – less food, less clothing, less of the usual comforts. All Steve had really noticed was that his favourite sort of fish was less readily available and he couldn't travel quite as easily. Things were getting back to normal, now, what had been a major upheaval in the lives of the working and lower classes little more than a bump in his life and the lives of those around him.

Aside from Carter, he didn't even know anyone who'd been to war.

It was just a day like any other, and he wasn't sure what was bringing on these reflective thoughts. Perhaps it was his father's imminent death.

Certainly, that was what had driven him out here. He'd had it with sitting about at his father's bedside, heartsick and wearied by it all. So he'd had a stable hand saddle one of the horses and now he rode out in the plantation, sticking to the shade of the towering pines to escape the summer sun.

He liked the horse. He was a thickly muscled cart horse, probably more used to dragging around massive logs than carrying a person. Certainly, he seemed sprightly and happy to jog along with Steve's comparatively meager weight on his back. He was a chestnut red all over, except for one white sock on his right foreleg and a flash of white down his forehead and muzzle.

His name was Squirt, which Steve thought was very unfair, not to mention unsuitable, but the stable hand had explained he'd been a scrawny little colt, so weakly and sick he'd almost died. It was only later he grew into the strapping thing he was now.

In the distance, Steve could hear the sound of the logging crews, hieing out to each other and calling warnings when their trees began to fall. He turned Squirt's head, moving deeper into the forest. Soon, the sounds were softened into a gentle backdrop to the nearer sounds of birds and small creatures. Steve let the horse take over and he soon found water, a little babbling stream that cut through the shadowed bases of the pines.

“Perfect,” he said to himself and swung down out of the saddle, glad to stretch his legs. He took off his jacket and slung it over Squirt's back, tethering him to a low root where he could graze and drink freely. Rolling up his shirtsleeves, he took his satchel down from where he'd tied it to the saddle and sat under a tree, letting out a long sigh.

The fresh air was good, the lunch the kitchen staff had prepared him even better, and he dozed a while against the tree, the sun crawling across the sky. After an hour or so, he took out his sketchpad and graphites and began to sketch the horse by the stream.

Drawing was a pastime his father had never approved of, but he had always loved it. He supposed his talent, such as it was, came from his birth parents, but of course he couldn't prove it. Neither Howard nor Maria were much willing to speak of his mother, who had turned up bedraggled and lost and alone in the middle of monsoon season, heavily pregnant and with an injured leg, weak from malnourishment. Steve had survived the trauma of it, his mother hadn't.

He didn't know what had prompted Maria and Howard to keep him. He was sure it was more down to Maria in the end. She couldn't have children of her own, something which was a constant burden to her, but they had already adopted James. Maybe that was the real reason behind it – maybe she had wanted to give James a brother. Perhaps it was out of respect for what his mother had endured to bring him into the world. He wasn't sure. He didn't really even think about it anymore. He was happy enough with his lot.

But he was happiest when he was drawing. And despite his escape, as he wryly called it, to London, some part of him, deep down, loved Fer Ciel, and missed it. Especially on the greyest, most overcast days when people scurried around with their coats drawn up to their ears and their heads pushed down against the wind, and the sun never showed its face from dawn until dusk.

He was deeply involved in his sketching, head bent, eyes flicking up to Squirt occasionally to capture his musculature as best he could. So involved that he didn't know he had company until a thickly-accented voice said from behind him;

“Boy-oh-boy. What do we got here? Ey, Carter! Yer li'l rich boy be drawin'!”

Steve shot up from his mossy seat, devastated when his pencil jerked right across the entire picture, leaving a deep, dark gouge. His head whipped around, and he got the impression of stark white teeth in a dark, dark face before the heel of his shoe caught awkwardly between two roots and he completely lost his balance. He flailed, his sketchbook flying one way, his pencils the other, but couldn't regain his balance.

He had enough time to think with utter clarity _'Well. This dip should completely ruin these pants.'_

There was no splash, however. Only a jerk as his fall was arrested, just barely, by a weirdly familiar hoe catching at his waist. He almost immediately began to slip off its minimal surface and grabbed for the handle.

He looked up into Anthony Carter's grinning face. The man was hanging onto a branch of the tree while stretching out the hoe to Steve.

“Well, fancy that,” he said to the other man, looking so smug Steve almost let go just to spite him. “I caught me a Li'l Stevie.”

“Don't call me that,” Steve muttered, using his grip on the hoe to haul himself upright before letting go. He looked around for his sketchbook, and scowled when he realized  the other man, the darkie, had it, and was leafing through the pages. As he did so he whistled through his teeth in admiration.

“Give that back,” Steve demanded – ordered, really, used to being obeyed.

The man jerked his head instead, and Carter went to look, peering over his shoulder.

“Fine work,” Carter said after a moment, during which Steve remained standing with his hand stupidly outstretched, still expecting them to do what he said. “ _Fine_ work. This what you've been doing with yourself over there in Merry Old England?”

“Yes,” Steve said abruptly. “I mean. No. I've been running one of Father's subsidiary paper factories...”

Carter smirked.

“Ah. I see. Still holding onto Daddy's apron strings.”

Steve bristled, and demanded again;

“Give. Me. That. Back.”

The darkie's eyes flickered up from the pages, then across to Carter.

“Thought these rich folk were s'posed ta have manners,” he said.

Carter shrugged.

“Different sorta manners to us, Rhodey. _Mo chagren_. Where are _my_ manners?” he said, slick tone dripping with sarcasm. “Li'l Stevie, this is James Rhodes. Rhodey. My sub-foreman.”

“Sub... _You're_ the foreman?” Steve exclaimed, finally dropping his hand.

“ _Oui_. Didn't you know that?” He clucked his tongue. “ _Pauve ti bête_. You've missed so much.”

The blonde scowled. How was it that Carter seemed to have him on the back foot? He straightened his vest, more for something to do with his hands than anything else, and eyed the man warily.

“I suppose you're out here 'gathering roots' again.”

Rhodey snickered.

“Li'l bit,” Carter said. “Li'l bit o’ something else.” He bounced his brows.

“This playing at being mysterious business doesn't suit you, Carter,” Steve snapped.

“Tony.”

“ _Mr._ Carter.”

Again there was a snicker from Rhodey's direction and Steve rounded on him.

“You keep to yourself, Darkie,” he growled.

The levity fell from both men's faces, and Carter was suddenly right up in Steve's space, toe to toe.

“You _best_ be mindin’ those famed manners of yours, _cher_ ,” he warned. It seemed some of his 'refinement', such as it was, failed him when he was particularly irked, his accent thickening noticeably. “Maybe most folks 'round 'ere and 'round London tolerate that, but I won't. Rhodey saved my life when no other man would come back for me. You show 'im some respect.” The last syllable sliced through the air sharply.

Tongue-tied and put off-balance by this sudden invasion of his personal space, Steve couldn't find words to reply. His jaw ticked, eyes sliding away from the intensity of Carter's gaze, so he didn't see it soften, didn't clock Carter's hand before it was smoothing through the soft hair just above his ear.

“There now, _cher_ ,” he crooned, his tone completely changed. Steve could almost swear there was a hint of affection in his tone, but surely the man was just mocking him. “I know you don't know no better. We'll teach you some manners in time.”

“Carter,” Rhodes said.

Steve's eyes flickered back to Carter's. His jaw ticked again and he became acutely aware of a bead of sweat sliding down his own temple. Carter's thumb shifted, catching it, brushing it away.  
  
“There now,” he crooned again, his Cajun accent thick and heady in the summer air. “No need to sweat over me, Li’l Stevie. You don't have a need to be afraid of me... Not me.”

“ _Tony_ _, ca va!_ ” Rhodes said more urgently.

The foreman turned, his hand sliding free of the blonde hair, and Steve let out a shaking breath he hadn't known he was holding. It was a long moment before he realised Carter and Rhodes were having a heated discussion under their breaths, the latter gesturing with his sketchbook to emphasise whatever he was saying.

Steve cleared his throat and gathered himself, a scowl reappearing on his face.

“Here, now,” he said, stalking over to interrupt their conversation and snatch his book back. “That's mine. And you.” He pointed at Carter. “You need to stop taking such liberties with my person. You say you need to teach _me_ manners?! Well, you've no _idea_ of propriety!”

And with that, he stalked over to his horse, untethered him and swung up into the saddle.

“Anyway,” he added, feeling much braver from the greater height. “Shouldn't you both be working?”

“Not that it's yer business, but we workin'. We's surveyin',” Rhodes snapped back.

Steve just snorted, turning Squirt around.  
  
“Stay away from me,” he said to Carter then he was gone, trotting off through the plantation.

\- - - - - - -

Tony was ready for it when Rhodey rounded on him. Knew the other man would not let his arguments be.

“What you thinkin', Tony, touchin' him like that? You could get fired. Kicked off th' plantation, even. Worse.”

Tony snorted.

“Starks need me too bad,” he replied flatly. “They don't know this bayou like I do. They'd never grow nothing if it weren't for me.”

Rhodey shook his head.

“Don't'cha bet on it, boy. They catch ya 'soilin'' their Li'l Stevie and you’ll be lucky ya don't get strung up from one've ya beloved tupelo trees!”

Tony smirked, bouncing his brows.

“ _Ca c’est bon_! I'll spend eternity with a beautiful view.”

Rhodey rolled his eyes.

“And I'll haunt you forever, _mon cher_!” Tony added.

“All th' more reason for me ta make sure ya don't get carried away. He's just another pretty face, Tony. But at th' same time, he ain't. He ain't. He's Steven Stark.”

“Rogers,” Tony corrected.

“Ya just playin' wit' words. It's not th' name that makes th' man. He's a Stark through ‘n’ through. And a bigot besides...”

Tony sighed, reaching up to curl his calloused hands over the extended branch of the tree. He hung from his muscled arms, stretched up on his toes.

“He don't know no better, Rhodey,” Tony said. “How can he? You only know what you grow up with.”

“Yeah, an' ya grow up wit' our kind, an' he grow up wit’ theirs. Tony. He's a spoiled li'l rich boy an' he ain't gonna change.”

Tony pushed himself backwards off the tree and hopped off the root he was balanced on.

“Let's get back to work.”

\- - - - - - -

Steve twitched out of his reverie at a knocking on his bedroom door, looking over his shoulder from where he sat at his desk, staring pensively at the ruined picture of Squirt and the creek. He dragged his hand through his hair, following the path Carter's fingers had taken.

“Yes?” he called.

Bucky threw the door open, dressed to the nines in a dapper suit and spats.

“Steviiie!” he cried. “C'mon. They're having a dance in the square. You and I are going, no ifs, buts or maybes.”

“But-”

“I said no buts! Get up. Get dressed. You've been moping around since you got here.”

“Because our Father-”

“He's not going to kick on any time soon, Steve. And no good is served by us sitting vigil over his bed until he does.”

Steve scowled at him.

“Bucky, how can you be so-”

“Steve, just... It's just one night. A few hours off. That's all.”

Steve sighed, eyeing his brother. He frowned. Bucky was a positive person, but the blonde realised suddenly he was taking this as hard, if not harder, than he was. He relented.

“Alright. Okay. Let me just get changed. Go on downstairs. I'll join you in a minute.”

Bucky whooped and took off downstairs, singing the whole way.

Steve couldn't help but smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch   
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	3. Family

“ _Feet pue tan!_ ” Tony threw his pencil onto the desk and pushed the accounting ledger aside.  He leaned back in his chair, precariously balancing himself on the back two legs. He pushed a hand up into his hair, knocking askew the cap that sat there. Dragging the hand back down to scrub his face, he leaned forward to grab his pack of Lucky Strikes and tapped out a cigarette. A match flared to his left and he tapped out another cigarette, holding it out for Rhodey. With both lit, Tony blew out a harsh stream of smoke as Rhodey took a seat across from the desk. The black man pulled the kerchief from around his neck and dabbed at the sweat on his brow.

“Numbers still ain’t addin’?” he asked his boss. Tony tipped his head back, blinking idly at the wooden ceiling above his head.

“They ain’t been addin’ up for years,” Tony muttered, flicking ashes absently towards the waste bucket beside his chair. “but they ain’t never been this bad before. If we don’t figure this shit out, we ain’t gonna have a leg to stand on in this business. Stark Industries will fall and take this whole goddamn town wit’ it.”

Rhodey watched his friend for a moment, letting the words settle in the thick air between them.

“I know ya ain’t wantin’ ta hear it again from me, Tones,” he said. “but we ain’t gotta stay here, man. We’s could get out, ya know that. Go anywhere ya wanna. North, even. I hear it’s better up there anyway… Ya know, for folks like me. I hear ‘em white folk up there don’t look twice at a black man walkin’ the streets wit’ no trouble.”

Tony turned his head to glance at Rhodey. His friend’s situation always rankled him, angered him at the injustice of it all. Things were getting better, yes, but not in this sheltered town with its societal hierarchy and pandering to the wealthy, aristocratic families that thought they held all the power. He couldn’t name a single white man he’d trust with his life like he trusted Rhodey and he doubted that would change anytime soon.

“ _Merde_ ,” he replied softly, almost apologetically. “I’m not leaving here. I can’t. Not yet.”

Rhodey was already nodding his head.

“He ain’t never gonna say it, Tones. Ya wastin’ your breath an’ ya life holdin’ out for them words. N’ speakin’ o’ that family some more. I ain’t done wit’ what ya doin’ wit’ his kid. You best be watchin’ how ya act wit’ ‘im. He ain’t been around here for some years. Most of these folk here turn their eye from ya because you be providin’ that Banner doctor wit’ his herbs, but they still be talkin’ ‘bout you n’ that Stone fella from the Fort that visited us.”

Tony scoffed, cutting into Rhodey’s speech. He stuck his cigarette between his teeth and stood to straighten up the books on the desk before wandering over to the window to crack it wider open.

“I didn’t do anything with Tiberius and you damn well know it,” Tony said as Rhodey turned his head to follow his movements. “And I also don’t give two shits what them people think. Never have. Never will. As for hoity-toity Steven Rogers…” Tony trailed off, exhaling another stream of smoke on a sigh through his nose. “As for him… Well, that story’s just to be continued, ain’t it? If the old man kicks it, then you know that shit-for-brains Bucky’s gonna try and stick his nose into the business. Li’l Stevie will be right behind him, playin’ at his heels as always. _Merde_ , I hate li’l boys who play at bein’ men.”

Rhodey sighed and stubbed his cigarette out, tossing it in the bin as he stood. He wiped at his brow again and gave Tony a stern look, a look most folks wouldn’t tolerate from his kind.

“You play with that fire and you’s gonna get burned, Tones. I ain’t gonna let ya do that to yourself. We family n’ if I gotta beat you down to save your ass ag’n, then I’ll do it. Go find one o’ them pretty, white girls that flutter their lashes at ya because they daddies think you’re too much trouble. Settle down, have babies. Give yourself the family ya know you wantin’. Leave that boy alone because he ain’t gonna be the one windin’ up hurt. It’s gonna be you n’ I’m done watchin’ you be hurt, Anthony Carter. It ain’t good for my heart.”

Tony was staring out the window, rubbing the center of his chest absently. There was a half-filled rig of logs just a hundred feet or so away from the office building. It sat beside the tracks where the waiting train was silent, the logging yard empty. It’d been an early day for the crew due to the small gala being thrown in the center of town. He’d count himself and Rhodey as two of the handful not welcome and not showing up.

Uninvited.

Unexpected.

Outcast.

All because of the circumstances of their births. Doomed by parentage, by skin color and by the mere fact they weren’t wealthy enough to overcome either of the first two obstacles.

Sometimes Tony wished he was still over in Europe fighting a goddamn war. Shit was simpler then. You knew what you were good for and you did it. Point and shoot. Point and shoot and fight for your life. He would have been happier to die there than coming back to his empty cabin in the fetid waters of the stale Louisiana bayous, sullied by the denigrating attitudes of the very people he’d fought to protect.

“ _Ouai_ ,” Tony drawled, letting his hand fall to his side. “I know how fragile your heart is, _mon ami_ ,” he teased, mouth curling slightly.

“It ain’t my heart tha’s fragile, ol’ man,” Rhodey teased right back. “You’s the one that be decidin’ it was a good idea to jump in front o’ them boys when that shell landed.”

“Ah, but how can you blame me?” Tony grasped Rhodey’s shoulder, ashes dropping to the floor. “They didn’t have the fine Lord lookin’ out for them with an angel like you, _mon cher._ An angel with steady hands n’-”

“And no patience for stupid, white boys like you,” Rhodey’s grin was a bright spot in the fading afternoon sun. “’Specially when they drag me back to this magical puddle they call home.”

Tony pulled him into a one-armed hug.

“’S not so bad here, Rhodey,” he replied. “Not with you keepin’ me company.”

“Keepin’ you on track, ya mean. Which we need to be finishin’ these books ‘fore night fall and ya ain’t really gonna wanna do it then,” Rhodey said, pushing Tony back towards the desk. “Ya said it yourself. We’s missin’ somethin’ in the numbers, so get ta addin’ again. I’ll follow ya up.”

“All work and no play, makes for stuffy, old men, Rhodey,” Tony crooned. “Don’t ya wanna go watch the pretty girls dance?”

“N’ get strung up for darin’?” Rhodey asked, absently but seriously. “No thanks, boss. I’m lookin’ ta keep breathin’,” he glanced up at Tony, eyes narrowed. “Why? Ya lookin’ to go start trouble wit’ the Stark boys?”

“You know me too well, _mon cher_ ,” Tony muttered petulantly and obediently bent back over the ledgers. He couldn’t help the stray thought that he bet Steve would dance until his face was flushed with excitement, blinding smile on display for all the girls. He scowled and might have dug his pencil a little harder than he needed to. Rhodey was right. It was a dangerous game he was entertaining, possibly one-sided and all bets were on him losing.

Good thing Tony wasn’t much for gambling.

“ _Ca va_ ,” he said suddenly, tossing the pencil back down. “I can’t do this anymore today. I’m going for a drink. You comin’?”

Rhodey fixed his kerchief back around his neck and sighed.

“Lead th’ way, Tony. Ya know I’ll follow,” he replied then muttered under his breath; “and keep ya outta trouble best I can.”

“I heard that.”

~~

“Thank you for escorting us, Doctor Banner,” Natasha said as she and her sister, Lorraine, stepped down from Bruce’s car. He smiled absently and gave them a polite nod.

“It’s my pleasure, Ms. Romanoff,” he doffed his cap and half-bowed them towards the party that was already in full-swing out in the square. “As always, I’m more than happy to help you girls out. I know your Papa is real upset he can’t make it and he’d consider it a shame if you two didn’t have a proper chaperone.”

Natasha shared a conspiratorial wink with Lorraine at that and they snickered quietly as each took one of Bruce’s arms and the trio headed for the crowd of people.

“I hear James is going to bring his brother down from the house,” Lorraine said. “Steve hasn’t been home in an age.”

“Well, if he turned out anything like James, that’s probably a good thing,” Natasha rolled her eyes. “A fine, upstanding flirt if there ever was one.”

“Oh go on, you,” Lorraine challenged. “You know you like him. It’s why you make him try so hard. That poor boy’s head over heels for you and thinks you hung the moon.”

“Who’s to say I didn’t?” Natasha grinned and was jerked suddenly to the left as the man-in-question swung her up and right out on to the dance floor. Doctor Banner just sighed as the couple disappeared in a swirl of blue skirts and red hair. Lorraine sighed dreamily and then glanced over as a tall, blonde gentleman settled in beside her and Bruce.

“Good evening, Doctor Banner,” Steve said.

“Mr. Stark,” Banner replied pleasantly. “Always good to see you, son, and good to see you finally came into your own. You’re in fine form.”

“Thank you, Doc,” Steve said with a nod of his head. Doctor Banner had looked after Steve for many years of his youth since he’d been a sickly child. “It’s good to see you in good health, as well.”

“Some people think it’s voodoo magic,” Bruce huffed patiently with a tiny smile. Lorraine coughed lightly. “Oh! May I introduce Lorraine Romanoff?”

“Natasha’s sister, right?” Steve asked, smiling. He lifted her hand to his mouth for a brief pass of his lips over her white kid-glove. “It’s not surprising that the party’s at night since the sun has decided to give its glow to such a pretty girl.”

Oh, and even Bruce had to bite his lip at that. Steve winced and kicked himself internally. He was so bad at relationships and girls and human interaction apparently. But Lorraine only giggled, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Oh, aren’t you smooth? You must have learned from James,” she said then gave him a once-over. “but you certainly…grew, didn’t you? You used to be a, um…” she trailed off, trying to think of a kind way to say it.

“A scrawny thing?” he helpfully supplied and Bruce quietly disappeared into the crowd. He laughed a little, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yes, but I think the London air did me some good.”

“It certainly did,” Lorraine replied with a smile. Her father’s words whispered across her thoughts. _Now, ‘Raine, that boy James is dead-set on your sister’s hand. We all know it. But what they don’t know is that he ain’t getting a lick of that Stark’s money when the ol’ bastard carks it. You see, I know more than that. I know that Stark favors Steve. Now, honey, don’t give me that look. Just because he’s a runt don’t mean that he ain’t marryin’ potential. You hook that Rogers boy and you hook ‘im good, ‘Raine. You’ll get this family set for life._ “Perhaps I should see London one day. Maybe it will do the same for me.”

“Oh no, Miss Lorraine,” Steve said hastily, blushing again. “I think you’re right amazing as it is. If anything, you’d make London a much prettier sight.”

“Mr. Stark, you do know how to turn a girl’s head,” Lorraine tittered.

“O-oh, please. Call me Steve, Miss Lorraine,” Steve stammered, shifting anxiously. “Mr. Stark seems so formal and stuffy.”

Lorraine’s smile widened. Hooking this young man just got easier and easier. She put a hand out on his arm.

“I hope you don’t find me too brazen, Steve, but would you like to dance?” she asked with a coy dip of her lashes.

“Um,” Steve swallowed, acutely aware of her touch through his jacket. It didn’t burn quite so much as Carter’s. He swallowed again. Where had that thought come from? “It-It’d be my pleasure.” He bent somewhat stiffly at the waist and led her off onto the dance floor, passing Bucky and the woman he’d recognize anywhere as Natasha. His brother grinned, briefly shooting him a thumbs-up. Steve rolled his eyes and concentrated on not stepping on Lorraine’s toes.

~~

“Why is it I only e’er see your Cajun ass when it’s come to drink my whiskey?” Clint grumbled from his porch stoop, one arm hooked lazily around a support beam. He struck a match along the sturdy wood and lit the rolled cigarette clamped between his teeth.

“Ah, _bougre_ , don’t be so cruel,” Tony moaned, a hand upon his heart as he and Rhodey approached the porch steps. “You’d have no friends if it weren’t for us comin' to see you.”

“ _Casse-toi,_ ” Clint groused, flicking his match at Tony and stepping back towards his door. He pushed it open, letting it bang shut in Tony’s face even though they all knew the Cajun would only grin and go right on in after him.

“I see you still ain’t washin’ that filthy mouth o’ yours,” Tony snorted, settling into a chair at Clint’s small kitchen table. The cabin Clint lived in was a small, homey thing. One bedroom and a bare bones layout. Perfect for the man who’d come back from war just a little crazier than Tony.

“If anyone’s gotta filthy mouth, Carter, it’s you,” Clint said, plunking a full jug of moonshine down in the center of the table. “Get us some glasses, would ya, Rhodes? Pity seein’ ya still stuck with this bitch Carter. Told you when we was comin’ home that he'd stick ya here, Rhodes. Shoulda cut n’ run when ya had the chance.”

Rhodey pulled three glasses down from a shelf over Clint’s sink and returned to the table. He set them out for each of them and then pulled up his own chair as Clint removed the cork from the jug.

“He’d forget ta shower now if it ain’t for me,” Rhodey replied. “The man be a mess n’ it’d just break my heart.”

“That man is right here, _cher_ ,” Tony drawled lazily, tapping two fingers against the table top. “And I only bathe when I start to smell. No use wastin’ water.”

“Ya wash every day, Tones,” Rhodey rolled his eyes.

“I ain’t no chatterin’ chicken, boys,” Clint said. “I don’t give a goddamn about your groomin’ habits. I know this ain’t no real social call, so why don’t ya just cut to the chase, Carter.”

Rhodey leaned back in his chair, one hand dark against the clear glass. He watched the amber liquid slosh a little as Tony put his arms on the table, leaning forward.

“I came for that favor you owe,” Tony said lowly. Clint searched the Cajun’s face silently and then let out a short breath.

“ _Fils de salop_ ,” Clint muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I knew gettin’ Rhodey’s help would bite me in the ass one day. What do ya want me to do?”

“Don’t look at me like that, _bougre_. It’s easy enough,” Tony assured him, picking his glass up to take a swallow of the liquor.

“Nothin’s e’er easy enough when it comes to you, Carter,” Clint continued to mutter then he drained his own glass in one shot and went about refilling it. “What is it?”

“I need a bank record,” Tony replied simply and Rhodey winced. They’d talked about this before, but he still thought it was a bad idea.

“Bank record for what?” Clint asked, eyes narrowed. “You already got the ledgers for the Industries so what ya need the record for?”

“Not for the Industries,” Tony shook his head. “I need it for Fer Ciel.”

Clint whistled low and sharp.

“See? It ain’t e’er easy with you, Carter. You know them records are sealed tighter than a nun’s legs. Anyone caught with a finger even near them ledgers is askin’ for a hangin’ if Stark found out.”

“ _Oui_ , that’s why I came to you, _mon ami_ ,” Tony grinned. “You’re the best of the best at what you do.”

“ _Merde, merde, merde,_ ” Clint pushed out of his chair to pace around the table.

“I tried ta tell ‘im it was a no good idea,” Rhodey said. “He’s askin’ for more trouble than it’s worth pryin’ into them records, but ya know how stubborn he is. He ain’t gonna drop this and if he ain’t, then we need ta do our best ta make sure he don’t get ‘imself into a mess he ain’t gettin’ outta. That’s why we’s here. You can get in n’ outta that bank vault without ‘em ever noticin’ a thing.”

“One record, Clint,” Tony said, looking up at the ex-soldier. “One record and we’re even.”

Clint stopped his pacing, facing the sink and the dirty window above it. He braced his hands on the ledge and rolled his shoulders.

“One record, Carter,” he repeated back to Tony, facing the two men again. “One record and you get me some of that fancy liquor you knick from Stark all the goddamn time. Then we’re even and I ain’t never doin’ shit like this again. We clear?”

One record was all he needed. Being able to compare the numbers from Stark Industries against Fer Ciel would hopefully give him all the answers he sought. Tony smiled grimly, lifting his glass in salute.

“Crystal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch   
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	4. Honor

Steve didn't dance often, and he was painfully aware of it showing. He was always a beat behind on the steps in the group dances, and continually looking down to avoid stepping on Lorraine's feet when it was just the two of them. He'd just been too busy, working from the time he woke until late into the night, then getting up to do it all over again.

He'd done well, he thought. The paper mill had been flagging when he'd arrived, turning up to three times as much loss as it was profit on any given day. It wasn't exactly a gold mine now, but it broke even most days, and some days even made a little profit. But it had come at the price of anything even remotely approaching a social life.

Steve hadn't minded. He found pleasure in watching the beleaguered mill grow stronger, in the smiles of workers who were feeling more successful. In fact, he'd barely noticed it, not missed the reminder of how awkward and shy he'd been, a skinny little twig of a boy plastered against a wall while his big brother swept all the ladies off their feet.

But it was blindingly obvious to him now that there was a massive gap in his skillset when it came to dancing. In fact, when it came to dealing with social situations. Well, not all social situations, since he'd spent plenty of time playing poker and standing around talking with business associates, but social situations involving _ladies_.

Lorraine was gracious, laughing off what had to be terribly bruised feet. Eventually, she was leading more than he was, counting off their steps. They began to stay out of the group dances.

“You're improving,” she said, one gloved hand sliding up Steve's bicep as they waltzed carefully in a space left kindly (or perhaps self-preservative) by the other dancers.

“I think you're just being polite, Miss Lorraine,” Steve said abashedly. “Are you sure you wouldn't rather dance with someone else? I'm sure your card is full...”

She laughed, shaking her head.

“I'd rather not leave your side, Steve. Who knows what other ladies might sneak in?”

Steve's answering laugh was shy, flattered. This would be easier, even, than she'd originally thought. The man clearly had little to no experience.

When the night ended, she extracted an invitation to dinner from him, and fluttered and thanked him like the whole thing had been his idea from the start. He went away beaming, male pride puffed up, and she knew she could report favourably to her father.

\- - - - - - -

“She's too clever for you by far,” Bucky said as Jarvis drove them home.

“Look who's talking,” Steve replied, trying to hide the blush that crept up his neck. “Miss Romanoff the elder runs rings 'round you.”

Bucky laughed, folding his hands behind his head.

“Boy, does she,” he agreed, beaming from ear to ear. “But we're not talking about me. We're talking about you and Miss Romanoff the _younger_.”

“ _You're_ talking. I'm not saying a word.”

“Ah. No kissing and telling with you, huh?”

“There was no kissing!”

Bucky laughed, head tipping back.

“Then you're doing it wrong,” he teased.

“Dear Lord,” Steve said, dragging his hand over his blushing face.

Bucky just laughed harder as the car pulled up to the manor.

“You should-” he started to say, but Jarvis opened the car door and Steve escaped into the house.

\- - - - - - -

Dinner with Lorraine was taken during another break from sitting vigil over their Father's bed. He and Bucky had started trading off, and it was wearing on them both, but they hid it well from everyone but each other.

He dropped the lady off at her door, kissed the back of her hand, and strode into the evening, thumbs tucked in his belt.

The red spot in the deepening night gave away Carter's presence before his laugh rasped around it through his teeth.

“You let her down, _bougre_ ,” he drawled as Steve drew to a halt.

“What?” the blonde asked before he realised he should have just kept walking.

“Let her down, Li'l Stevie. She wanted you to kiss her.”

Steve scowled and blushed all at once.

“No. She didn't. She's a _proper_ lady,” he muttered, leaving the 'unlike the ones you know' unsaid, but undeniably hanging in the air.

But Carter just laughed.

“ _Oui, oui_ ,” he teased. “Such a _proper_ lady... She's just looking for Fer Ciel's money, _cher_.”

Now Steve really scowled, taking a threatening step towards Carter, who yet remained loose, leaning against the wall of the nearest building.

“Don't you impugn her honor, Carter. She's got more of it in her little finger than you have in your whole body.”

“ _Oui_! Of course!” Carter went on, but he sounded derisive and teasing. “And you've been lookin’, have you? At my body? To gauge its... _honor_?”

Steve hoped the darkness covered his blush. He caught himself looking _now_ , that was for sure. Carter was wearing the jeans he favoured and an olive-green tank top that Steve envied because the night was warm, and the buttoned-to-the-neck shirt and tie he was wearing gave him no breathing room at all. Muscle flexed as the Cajun lowered his cigarette, dispensing with the collection of ash at its end with a dexterous flick of his thumb.

“No,” Steve said suddenly, after he knew he'd let the silence linger far too long. “That wasn't what I meant.”

“Of course not,” Carter teased. He pushed off the wall and Steve took an instinctive step back.

“Not a step closer, Mr. Carter,” he warned, lifting his hands a little defensively, butterflies fluttering in his stomach disconcertingly.

“Why? What are you afraid of?” Carter said, his voice challenging and yet completely amused.

“I'm not afraid,” Steve said defensively. “Of you. I mean.”

“No? Then what _are_ you afraid of, _cher_?”

Steve wasn't actually unaccustomed to the stir of heat he'd felt when Carter touched him. He'd felt it before, around other men. He wasn't the sort of man to completely deny it to himself either. He was the sort of man who tackled things head-on. He knew, in a distant, untried sort of way what it was and what it meant. He also knew what would happen if anyone ever noticed. So he didn't let his eyes linger. He didn't let himself get carried away, but kept an iron control on his reactions and responses. And it wasn't like Lorraine didn't have the same effect – if a little... mellower.

But Steve had never met another man who seemed to be _actively_ encouraging it. Provoking it. It was harder to clamp down on when Carter seemed to be _seeking_ it.

And here he came again. A step closer and another, his gait languid, almost liquid and Steve felt that heat coil deep in his belly like a diamond-backed water snake poised to strike.

“I'm not afraid,” he said – lied, really. He was terrified. Not of Carter, specifically, or of what the man did to him just with a look, but of what could easily happen to both of them if anyone _saw_.

Steve put up a hand, catching Carter's shoulder and literally keeping the grinning Cajun at arm’s length.

“No closer,” he said tightly. “Don't touch me.”

“That's not what you really want,” Carter said, low and easy, one hand curling over Steve's wrist, then sliding up his arm, fingertips skirting his bicep. “Is it now?”

Steve narrowed his eyes.

“Back. Off.”

He pushed Carter hard. The man was tough and wiry, all muscle in an olive-skinned frame, but Steve was taller, stronger, solid in a way Carter wasn't. He stumbled back, almost tripping, and dropped his cigarette.

“ _Putain_!” he cursed, first grinding his booted foot into the smoldering cigarette to stop it catching anything on fire, then glaring at Steve who by now had his arms folded defensively across his chest.

“Well. I did tell you,” he said tightly.

“ _Oui_ ,” Carter's tone was derisive. “You say you're not scared, but you behave like that. I don't believe you. I think you're a liar.”

“You can think whatever you want, as long as you think it from a distance,” Steve replied.

Carter peered at him with narrowed eyes then the tenseness suddenly went out of him and he was back to his lazy slouch.

“I think you-” he started to say, but a voice from the dark cut across him.

“ _There_ you is. I been lookin' all over for you, Boss.”

It was Rhodes, of course, striding out of the shadows between two houses with his thumbs tucked in his belt loops. Steve thought he caught Carter scowling at his friend, but the expression disappeared so quickly, he decided it couldn't have been there.

“Well, now you found me, _bougre_. How can I help you this fine evening?”

“Come to supper. Possum _insists_.”

He put a particular twist on the word, giving Carter a significant look and Steve wondered at the silent communication going on between them. Clearly Rhodes didn't want Carter to argue.

The foreman folded his hands behind his head.

“Tell Possum I got-”

“ _Ca va_ , Tony,” Rhodes hissed, approaching him and taking his arm, dropping his voice below Steve's hearing to whisper something to his friend.

Steve didn't wait to see the outcome. He took the opportunity to turn and begin striding away. They didn't even notice to begin with, and by the time they did, he was quite a distance away. Neither of them called him back.

He pretended he wasn't even a little disappointed.

\- - - - - - -

“You's playin' with fire,” Rhodey whispered, his fingers tight on Tony's forearm. “And you's gonna be the one gets burned. Not him. Never him or his lot. I seen this a hundred times. Our women and their men an' they takes what they wants an' then it's all her fault. An' this is so much worse, Tony.”

“I'm not like you, though, Rhodey,” Tony reminded him. “I'm not black.”

“Near as, Tony. You's not like _them_ , that's certain. An'... an' you... What you is is even worse in their eyes. In _everyone's_ eyes. This sorta thing... ain't _no one_ as accepts a queer.”

Tony jerked his arm out of Rhodey's grip, pushing him back.

“Don't use that word.”

“What else fuckin' word is there?!” Rhodey demanded. “None I ever heard.”

Tony dragged his hand through his hair.

“If it's so _queer_ , then why are people that way? It's not like I _chose_ it,” he snapped, feeling like he'd had the same argument for his entire life. He was so tired. And Steve...

God, hadn't he always loved Steve, from the first moment he'd laid eyes on the kid when he was all of about five, hanging onto his Mama's skirts and staring out over the plantation with an all-day sucker stuck in his little mouth?

Yes. But it had been later Tony actually fell _in love_ with the youngest Stark.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_It was easy to get lost in the bayous deep in the leafy green of Fer Ciel. Tony had grown up virtually with swamp water running through his veins, and he knew its every inch, its every nuance. He could have been dropped off anywhere, blindfolded on the way there, and still found his way home._

_It wasn't so easy for an_ [étranger](http://www.wordreference.com/fren/%C3%A9tranger) _. Indeed, even some of his kinfolk weren't as skilled at navigating the murky waters and vine-hung branches as he was._

_So of course Li'l Stevie had got himself lost, storming from the house with a full head of steam, shouting angrily back at his mother about how he could manage a horse_ just fine _, and he was just a_ bit sick _not_ dying _._

_By the time he stopped, he was past the familiar areas of Fer Ciel, into the steamy bayou. He hadn't even noticed the change in scenery until it was too late._

_For a long while, he staggered about from tree root to tree root to boggy mound to boggy mound, refusing to become upset or cry, because that would give weight to his mother's arguments that he was_ too young _._

_But eventually, he tripped and fell, coating himself from hairline to ankle in fetid mud and when he sat up, he couldn't fight the tears that began to streak down his cheeks._

_That was how Tony had found him, quietly crying, but still too stubborn to call out for help, obstinate strength in his frail, trembling body._

_“Li'l Stevie,” he'd crooned, strong legs carrying him easily across to the boy. “There now, Li'l Stevie. Tony's got you. You're alright,_ cher _. You're alright. You've caused quite the song and dance back at the house.”_

_He was only twelve, then, all gangly limbs and blue eyes and muddied blonde hair, but he'd scowled like an angry tom cat at Tony, stuck his bony chin out and declared;_

_“I'm not little.”_

_And Tony, nearly eighteen, had known he was lost too. Not in the bayous, never there, but deep inside, his heart gone to the muddy boy with the blue, blue eyes._

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And now... Talk about filling out. Who'd ever have thought that scrawny little kid could have grown into something like Steven Stark... Steven Rogers... Whatever-the-fuck his name was.

A rose by any other name, right?

Tony bet he smelt sweet too. He was so perfect, in his well-cut suits with his carefully-styled hair, never even looked like the heat bothered him while the rest of them looked limp and overheated all the time.

Rhodey touched his arm again, breaking him from his reverie.

“You's askin' for a broke heart, Carter. An' I don't wanna see that.”

Tony didn't answer him, turning to stride back through the town, lighting a new cigarette as he went. It wasn't that he didn't think Rhodey had the right of it. It was just that he didn't think it was enough to stop him.

Not even nearly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch   
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	5. Forbidden

Steve counted his stars as lucky when he got home that evening and Jarvis informed him that Bucky had already left for his turn at their father’s bedside. He thanked Jarvis and hurried up the stairs, fearing that the man could _see_ the print of Carter’s hand on his shirt sleeve. It was ridiculous, he knew, but Steve couldn’t shake the heat of Carter’s touch, even one as simple as it had been.

But it wasn’t simple, was it? Now that Steve understood Carter’s intentions... not that man had spelled it out exactly, but there was no mistaking it. If it had been any other person, surely they would have turned Carter in immediately. The repercussions were numerous, fatal even, for such acts and any moral, upstanding gentleman wouldn’t have just left it alone. They wouldn’t have dismissed it so easily.

Maybe it was guilt, Steve thought, as he pushed into his room and slumped back against the door when it closed with a soft click. Guilt at the surge of heat he’d felt at Carter’s fingers around his wrist, sliding up his arm. He stayed against the door, dazed as his thoughts whirred uselessly, until he realized he was rubbing his own hand up the path Carter’s had taken. He scowled and kicked off the door, stomping towards his private bathroom as he stripped out of his clothes.

He’d put it from his mind. Forget it. Tamp down the incident and the stirrings of a forbidden desire that he would not, _could not_ , let surface. He’d resolve to stay as far from that… that Cajun _trash_ as he could. He blinked and found himself in front of the bathroom mirror, hands braced on the sink. That had been an unfair thought.

He glanced up at his reflection, wincing at the twin peaks of color on his cheeks. He didn’t truly think less of Carter for the circumstances of his birth.  Fundamentally, Steve was a good guy and he believed Carter worked hard or his father wouldn’t have employed him as the foreman of Stark Industries. If Howard trusted Carter, then... Steve sighed and turned towards the opulent tub. Then he would have to trust Carter too.

Steve turned on the water, focusing on adjusting the temperature before stepping under the spray as he slid the heavy curtain around him. He tried to dismiss Carter’s interruption of his evening, tried to think of Miss Lorraine’s wind-chime laughter and beguiling smile. He felt a small tug of attraction as he remembered how she’d let him tuck a blonde curl of hair behind her ear. She’d smiled so prettily, leaning into his arm. He’d felt the press of her chest and had promptly flushed.

He flushed now too, pushing his face under the water and let the heat of the spray drown out the heat in his cheeks.

“This is no time to think of a lady,” he chastised himself aloud as he stepped back and prepared to wash. He started off perfunctorily, soaping his legs up to his torso and then he hesitated, hand lingering against his arm.  The touch of Carter’s hand was still fresh on his bicep and Steve swore he could smell the lingering scent of tobacco in the air of his bathroom. He could still hear the sweet tongue-curls of Carter’s Cajun dialect, the lilt and intonation of his words as he daringly stepped closer and closer.

To Steve’s mounting dismay, lust was blooming hot and fast in his stomach, bringing his cock to surprising hardness. He growled out in frustration, the sound more a whimper than a threat as he pressed both hands to the shower wall. He’d will it back down. He’d ignore it; suffer the pain of that ignorance; a smaller price to pay than giving into the sin of temptation. He wouldn’t give Carter the satisfaction even though the man would never know. Carter would never know that Steve’s hand dropped to wrap shaking fingers around his length. He wouldn’t know that just that was enough to stutter Steve’s hips as he bit his lip on a gasp. Or that Steve had to drop his forehead to his arm now pressed lengthwise against the wall so he could hide his eyes from the shameful act.

No one would ever know that Steve let himself fully relive the fluid movements of Carter’s body as he stalked towards Steve. Because that’s what it’d been. Predator and prey. It didn’t matter that Steve was taller, stronger. He was unequal to Carter in the life-experience he needed to deal with the situation, green behind the ears in a way that Carter could probably smell as weakness.

Only Steve would know that his lips trailed against his wrist in the same spot Carter’s hand had held as he stroked himself quick and dirty. The shower poured down around him, easing his pace as he thrust into his fist. He bit into the palm of his hand. Carter’s mouth at his ear, he heard the rasping endearment of ‘ _cher_ ’ and shuddered out his release, vision whiting out with a muted cry of desperation. He froze in place, the aftershocks of his climax rippling down his spine only to be washed away under the dizzying realization of what he’d done.

His release was a hollow satiation then, a gnawing ache of guilt in his stomach as he shut the water off and staggered out of the tub. He felt bile in the back of his throat and he quickly rinsed his mouth out in the sink. He distantly noticed he was shaking still and he sunk to the floor, careless of his still soaked body and the cold tile beneath his skin. He wrapped his arms around his legs and shivered endlessly.

“Damn it,” he whispered against his arms, head bowing and teeth chattering. “Damn it all,” and squeezing his eyes shut, he refused to acknowledge the tears from his eyes as anything other than water dripping from his hair.

~~

 _“D’you see that big light in the distance,_ bougre _?”_

_Steve strained up on his tiptoes, clutching the man’s-Tony, he’d said his name was-hand for extra leverage._

_“Is that my house? All the way out there?” he asked, looking up at Tony._

_“_ Oui _, you came quite the ways into the bayou,” Tony chuckled as Steve’s face screwed up beneath the mud. It’d begun to dry and crack in the summer evening’s heat and was chipping away with each expressive twist of the young boy’s face. “You’re lucky I found you before somethin’ else did.”_

_“I wasn’t afraid,” Steve said, fingers tightening around Tony’s bigger hand. Tony’s mouth quirked._

_“Course not,_ bougre _. You did the right thin’ n’ stayed put until someone found you. But next ti-“_

_“What is that? What do you keep saying?” Steve interrupted, stumbling a little until Tony slowed his pace a bit for the boy. Tony glanced down at Steve, brows raised. A few drops of rain began to fall, making their descent through the leaves of the trees._

_“Which part?” he asked in slight confusion. “About stayin’ put?”_

_“Nooo,” Steve drew out in exasperation. “The booger part.”_

_“The boog-“ Tony couldn’t help it, he had to laugh and even harder when he saw that it’d caused Steve’s cheeks to go red between the trails of mud. He stopped and wiped the mirth from his eyes with a quick dash of his hands. He crouched in front of Steve, bracing one hand on his bent knee. “It’s pronounced_ bougre _,” he repeated the word again, slow and careful until Steve recited it almost perfectly back at him, minus the slight curl of the ‘r’, but the boy’s tongue would grow into it. If he practiced, Tony lamented. A secret part of him hoped the boy would._

_“But what does it mean?” Steve asked after the impromptu lesson, shifting his weight with a child’s endless energy._

_“It means buddy,” Tony replied, lifting his hands to brush off the mud as the rain wet it from Steve’s cheeks. He smiled slightly. “Another way of sayin’ friend.”_

_“Oh,” Steve sighed then rolled his eyes and said, with all the bluntness of children; “I’m not your friend. Daddy says we’re not supposed to hang around you. He says you’re a no-good… Well, he says a lot of things.”_

_Tony let his hands drop back between his knees, gaze drifting away from Steve, narrowing thoughtfully at Fer Ciel way off in the distance between the copses of trees._

_“I’m sure he does,” he replied after a moment. “_ Mais oui, _if he doesn’t want you 'round me, then I best be leavin’ ya to it, Li’l Stevie. You’ll have to go on without me.”_

_Steve’s eyes widened as Tony stood back up and took a few steps away._

_“Wait! Y-… You can’t just leave me here!” he hastened to say, panicking as the harder rain began to darken the bayou around them even more. “I could get lost again and…and…I want to go home,” he finally hiccupped softly. “I don’t feel good, Tony.”_

_Tony eyed Steve for a moment, gaze narrowing further. Was the kid actually not feeling well or was he bullshitting? The rain was drenching them now, matting their hair to their foreheads and making fitting clothes sag and bulge with water. He raked a hand through his hair, slicking the dark strands back and sighed heavily._

_“Okay, okay,” he tried to sound put out, but Steve was sticking his lower lip out and Tony knew he was a lost cause. He took the boy’s hand in his own again and continued on through the bayou. He was more conscious of where he stepped now, knowing that the ground was a bit more dangerous when soaked. He actually stumbled himself and was mildly embarrassed. He knew these bayous like the back of his hand and here he was stumbling around with a kid in the dark. It was mortifying. He swore softly._

_“Mama says that’s a bad word,” Steve said loudly to be heard over the rain._

_“Are you the swear police?” Tony grumbled, trying to find his footing before keeping forward._

_“There’s no such thing,” Steve protested faintly. “Unless you count Mama… She… She…”_

_“She what?” Tony asked, but Steve’s hand slipped from his as the boy swayed towards the ground. Tony swore again, catching the thin body before the boy could drop. He pressed a hand awkwardly to Steve’s forhead and felt the fever pitched beneath his skin. “_ Pauve ti bête, _you weren’t kiddin’.”_

_And that’s how Tony found himself crossing the open field towards Fer Ciel with the unconscious body of twelve year-old Steven Rogers-Stark. The old man was going to kill him, he just knew it. Shoot first, ask questions later. Or maybe not even bother with the questions._

_Tony could hear servants still calling out for their young master, lights bobbing all over the property as they searched through the pouring rain. He was absently following the path of one towards the bayou when the cocking of a shotgun stopped him dead in his tracks._

_“What did you do to the boy?” Howard Stark demanded from behind the barrel of his weapon. Well, what do you know? He actually asked first._

_“Steven! Oh, my poor baby!” Maria cried, rushing past Howard to pull Steve from Tony’s arms. She adjusted the child in her arms, cradling him carefully. “Thank you,” she whispered to Tony, not making eye contact. “Jarvis!” she turned, taking the steps back into the house two at a time and disappearing as the butler and a maid fell into step behind her . The doors closed, sealing Tony off from the warmth of the house._

_“I ain’t do nothin’,” Tony affected a speech that seemed less intelligent. After all, that’s how Howard viewed him. His posture went lax, gaze dark where it was trained on the gun. “Found th’ brat two miles in th’ waters. I did y’a favor, Starky. He coulda gotten ate by a bobcat or entertained a cottonm-“_

_“Shut your mouth,” Howard growled. “You aren’t allowed here and you aren’t allowed near my boys. Get your ass off of Fer Ciel before your mother has to learn how to voodoo buckshot wounds.”_

_Tony’s eyes flashed dangerously and he bared his teeth in a lazy grin, gleaming quick in the light from the manor._

_“You wouldn’t shoot me,” he said, dropping all pretense of stupidity. “Mama wouldn’t let you in the house anymore if you went and did that. And the good Lord forbid I never have to hear you grunt like a pig over her no more.”_

_Howard snarled, flipping the gun around in a move quick enough that Tony couldn’t evade. He caught the butt of the shotgun right across his cheek and jaw and landed in the wet gravel before the stairs. He tried to shake his vision free before Howard grabbed him by the front of his shirt, twisting it up in his fist and dragging Tony from the ground._

_“Get. Off. My. Property,” Howard said succinctly. “And stay away from my sons. I_ will _shoot you, Anthony. I_ will _burn you like the trash you are.”_

 _“I have as much right to be here as them bastard boys you took in,_ fit-putain _!” Tony hissed, blood flecking his lips as it stained his teeth. Howard threw Tony away from him, but Tony managed to keep his feet this time. He was grateful for the rain. Grateful that Howard wouldn’t see the emotion currently wreaking havoc on him. “The bayous belong to me so why don’t_ you _keep_ your _goddamn trash out of my waters or th’ next time, I won’t be so quick to help them.”_

_“Gentlemen,” Howard said flatly, dismissive of Tony’s speech. “Escort him back to the bayou. Make sure he stays there.”_

_A few men that Tony hadn’t noticed come up, chorused agreement and one got a hand on Tony’s shoulder. Tony jerked away and turned on his heel._

_“One day, you’ll regret what you’ve done,” Tony said over his shoulder. Another gun pushed into his lower back._

_“Get to walkin’, coonass,” the man said in a bored tone. Tony nearly bristled at the derogatory name before he took a steadying breath. He walked stiffly back towards the bayou with his small entourage and once they were certain he wasn’t going to go running back, they left him at the edge. Tony stared at Fer Ciel for a long moment before reaching up to his jaw. He’d have a fantastic bruise by the time he made it back to the house._

_“_ Merde _,” he swore. His mama was going to have his hide._

~~

Tony woke slowly, head buried slightly under his pillow and the sensation of cool glass against his arm and side. He groaned and dropped the empty whiskey bottle to the floor with a hollow clunk. That would explain the trip down memory lane in his dreams. It also boded poorly for the rest of his day. He hated dreaming about the past, but at least he should count himself lucky he hadn’t dreamed of his time in the war. He banished that thought process before he could get any further.

He rolled to his back, knocking the pillow off his face and glancing down at the brown-skinned arm that slid across his chest. His bleary gaze followed the arm to Rhodey’s face beside him. He stared for a moment then rolled his eyes and pushed Rhodey’s arm away.

“I was _not_ that drunk,” he said. Rhodey snorted softly and shifted away into a stretch.

“Ain’t no alcohol in th’ world strong ‘nough for me ta let ya near my ass, boss,” he yawned around his reply, turning on his side away from Tony. “You’s havin’ ‘nother one o’ them nightmares ag’n. Now get outta my bed n’ put some damn pants on. Ain’t nobody wanna see tha’ pale ass o’ yours this early inna mornin’.”

Tony rolled his eyes and sat up, groaning piteously. It gained no sympathy from his friend and he gave it up for a lost cause. Pushing to his feet, he stooped to pick up his pants and the empty bottle. He tossed the bottle in the trash as he made his way into the shower. Maybe he could drown his potential hangover in the water before it had a chance to take hold.

Either way, it might wash away the bitter taste of that dream off his tongue. It was far too easy to remember the effervescent little boy Steven Rogers had been as Tony watched him grow up and then far too easy to see the morally-uptight, judgmental ass society had formed the man into. The man may be all muscle, and god what tempting muscle that was, but Tony would bet his last coin that Steve was daintier than the women Tony could bed with a cock of his hip in the right direction.

“What a fuckin’ waste,” Tony mourned. He’d hoped that Steve had grown up while he’d been overseas, seen how much bigger the world actually was than just from the bigoted views of the backwater society they lived in here. It wasn’t like Heaven needed another Bucky, obediently and blindly following in Howard Stark’s footsteps to rule Heaven with an iron fist even as his company crumbled beneath his feet.

Tony thunked his head against the shower wall. It was their day off, but he knew he’d clean up and go to the office, try in vain like always to figure out where their funds were leaking like a brain hemorrhage before it was too late to stay alive. He also knew he’d spend most of the day trying to picture if Steve’s blush went all the way down his chest or stopped just below his buttoned-up collar.

“Don’t be wastin’ all my hot water!” Rhodey called from the other room.

“I jus’ got in,” Tony complained.

“N’ don’t be soilin’ my tiles neither!”

“Now you’re jus’ bein’ mean, _mon cher_!” Tony whined around a laugh. “You could join me!”

“It’s amazin’ how productive you’s is considerin’ how much sex you be thinkin’ ‘bout,” Rhodey replied, voice much closer as he came in to use the toilet. “’Sides, I knows where ya been n’, like I said, ain’t no alcohol strong ‘nough.”

Tony pulled the curtain aside to grin at Rhodey.

“Could stop me chasin’ after Li’l Stevie Rogers,” he crooned teasingly, waggling his eyebrows.

“Ya ain’t got no shame, Anth’ny Carter,” Rhodey rolled his eyes. “Ya mama would beat y’ass if she could see how ya be actin’ now.”

“ _Your_ mama could beat my ass,” Tony leered. “I’d bend right over for her.”

“She’d shoot ya first,” Rhodey deadpanned. “n’ I’d load th’ gun. Dumbass white boy,” he grumbled as Tony closed the curtain with a full-body laugh that echoed around the bathroom. Leave it to Rhodey to be able to lift Tony’s spirits before a long day plowing through figures. Maybe if his day continued to get better, they’d hear from Clint that evening. The sooner the better, but Tony knew better than to rush the ex-soldier. If anyone could get the job done, it was Clint, and Tony just had to trust him.

There was no way _that_ could go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch   
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	6. Gambling

The day was dull, Fer Ciel living up to her name by dressing herself in scudding clouds, some of which hung low enough to mist the tops of the tall, tall firs. Tony's head was hurting like a bitch as he poured over the books, looking at numbers he'd looked at a thousand times.

Still no answers lay there. Still he had no idea where all the money was going. His books said they should be making a profit, and a healthy one at that, but he knew the bank managers were almost constantly on Howard's doorstep, clamoring for money.

He sighed, pushing away from the desk, and kicked his way outside to light up a cigarette.

He sheltered under the eave as the iron skies opened up, shoulders hunched up. It wasn't cold by any means, the rain creating steamy conditions instead.

The trucks were still in the drizzling rain, no man at work this Sunday morning. The trees stood as shifting sentinels, safe from the loggers for the time being.

So it was that he was instantly aware of movement that shouldn't have been there. A pale flash in the gray day.

He pushed off the wall, squinting.

It was Steve. He could tell by the way the man walked. He wore one of his ridiculous pale suits, not at all a good choice in the steamy weather, but apparently he was still dressing for London. He had his hands shoved in his pockets, his head down, water dripping from his soaked fringe. He kicked a can across the ground as he walked and, frankly, he looked miserable.

Tony hesitated for a long, long moment. Well. About thirty seconds. Then he pushed off the wall and strode out into the rain.

“Well,” he called out, teasing, sing-song. “If it isn't Li'l Stevie Rog...” He trailed off, voice fading to nothing as Steve looked up and his expression was _devastated_.

Tony saw the blonde try to control it, try to school it. He physically muscled his expression into something aloof and slightly irritated.

“Don't. Call me that,” he said tightly. There was a hitch in his voice that threw back to that little boy lost in the bayou who _wasn't_ afraid.

“I'm sorry,” Tony found himself saying despite himself, then; “Are you alright, _cher_?”

“Don't call me _that_ either! Or _bougre_. Keep your Cajun slang to yourself!”

Tony hadn't heard anything past Steve's tongue curling perfectly around the French, the 'r' part of the word as perfect as he'd known it could be, if the boy practiced. And he _had_. Clearly. He had.

“Are you alright?” Tony said again, more firmly.

“Yes,” Steve said. It was an out and out lie. Gentry didn't go walking in the rain out in the wilds of their plantations on a Sunday if they were alright.

“You're not fooling me, _cher_. Steve. You're not fooling me, Steve.”

Steve glared at him, or tried to, but it wasn't strong enough. It was more like a sad stare, and then even that melted from his face and Tony thought he might be crying, but it could just be the rain.

“My father... My father is dead.”

Tony didn't know what to think about that. Or how to feel. His immediate mental reaction was 'good riddance', but there was more to think about than that, and in some ways he was extremely pissed off at the old bastard. He had up and died and never given Tony the chance to… but those feelings and the overwhelming loss of a chance to… to…  He couldn’t think about that now.

“Oh,” he said eventually.

Steve gave a bitter laugh.

“Yes, I suppose that about sums it up.”

“I mean. _Mo chagren_. I'm sorry.”

“I bet,” Steve said, dripping with sarcasm and hurt.

“I am,” Tony said gently. “I _am_ sorry for you, Steve.”

Steve peered at him, seemed to see his sincerity, and lost the rest of his bravado. He pushed one hand into his hair, a sob wracking his frame.

“He... He wanted me when... when I had no one else... A-and maybe he wasn't the world's greatest father, but... but... I loved him.”

Tony had never seen Steve so distraught and his heart went out to him as he slid his arms around the blonde.

“Oh, _mon cher_ ,” he murmured, rubbing Steve's soaked back. “My Li'l Stevie. You're allowed to be sad.”

Steve didn't even have the energy to remind him not to call him those names. He cried and cried in the rain and Tony continued to rub his back, until there was a shout and they both looked up.

It was Bucky, coming through the rain, looking for Steve.

The blonde pulled away from Tony, tugging at his sodden clothes as though trying to right them, though of course it was useless. Tony's mouth twitched a little in amusement, fighting the resentment at being interrupted by the other man.

Bucky jogged up to join them.

“There you are. I was looking everywhere,” he said to Steve, leveling an almost glare at Tony.

“I'm sorry,” Steve said. “I just... I had to get out of there.”

“I understand,” Bucky said reassuringly. He fell silent, looking between the other men. That silence stretched into awkwardness and Bucky and Steve shifted uncomfortably while Tony remained loose, smirking at their discomfit.

“Well. So. We should get back,” Bucky said significantly.

“Oh. Right,” Steve said, dragging his hand across his soaking wet hair.

“Don't stick around on my account, _le garcon_ ,” Tony teased.

Bucky scowled at him. He grabbed Steve's forearm and dragged him off.

Tony watched them go and he grinned when Steve looked back over his shoulder, through the pouring rain.

\- - - - - - -

Naturally, Tony wasn't invited to the funeral. None of the staff were, despite the fact some of them were very upset. So they held their own shin-dig where Tony got so drunk he passed out and nearly drowned himself in a pot of gumbo with a pretty young thing in his lap just as plastered as he was. At least it would have been a good way to die.

But Rhodey pulled him out and when they woke the next morning, Tony was as miserable as ever. Even knowing what ate at Tony, the other man got sick of him in about an hour and went to have breakfast with some of the others while Tony wallowed on his front porch, smoking and nursing his hangover in frustrated misery.

“Ey! Tony!” Rhodey's voice cut through his morose musings a bit later. He didn't even look up. “Tony, you got a visitor.”

Tony glanced up, caring about his 'visitor' about as much as he cared about the bug that was crawling along the railing of his porch. He absently flicked a stack of ashes after it as it scurried away.

But it was Clint, and that perked him up at least a little. The man was chomping on a rasher of bacon, a mug (well, more like a bucket) of coffee in his other hand.

Tony kicked his feet off the railing and sat up, grinning toothily.

“Hey! Clint! Ol' buddy, ol' pal!”

“Oh, right. Now you say that,” Clint rolled his eyes as his took the couple of steps up to the porch. “Y'ain't a good host.”

“I'm sorry,” Tony said ingratiatingly, standing to sling an arm around Clint's shoulders. “Big night.”

“So I hear, _bougre_ ,” Clint said dryly and very hesitantly asked, as if he didn’t really want to hear the answer; “How ya handlin’ it?”

“I’m fuckin’ over the moon, Barton,” Tony replied blandly before moving to indicate a chair. “Here, sit down.”

Clint did so, taking his time eating his bacon and finishing his coffee while Tony waited with unconcealed, agitated twitching. The soldier was taking far too much pleasure in it, but Tony knew it would just be worse if he pressed the other man.

Eventually, Clint put his mug aside and reached into his jacket. He took out a slim folder.

“Good thing for Fer Ciel the ol' bastard's dead,” he said without preamble, handing the folder across. “'Else there'd be nothin' left've 'er. Them boys got their work cut out for 'em.”

Tony frowned at Clint, then flipped open the folder.

\- - - - - - -

The reading of the will might have had some brothers at each others' throats, but Bucky and Steve both knew which of them had better business sense. It made sense that Steve was the one put in charge. Naturally, the younger Stark wasn't about to go it alone, but he had the final word.

When the estate’s lawyer held on to a sealed envelope that came with the will, Steve inwardly admitted to a spike of curiosity. Bucky had no qualms about expressing that same curiosity out loud.

“Very sorry, sir, but this letter is meant for someone else,” the lawyer said as he tucked his papers back into his case. As he stuffed the envelope in after the other papers, Steve caught the beginnings of a name.

_Ant…_

It didn’t take a genius for him to work out the rest of that name and Steve tucked the information away beneath the still-present ache of loss. The other day in the rain had been a fluke. He’d allowed himself that moment to drown head-first in the loss of his father. That was the only conceivable reason he’d let Carter touch him, let alone console him. It hadn’t been any different than any of the other countless condolences and well-wishes he and Bucky had received during and after the funeral. It hadn’t. Carter wasn’t any more special than the others.

If he continued to repeat that, the lie might eventually feel true.

So to distract himself, Steve immediately threw himself into work, knowing he had to change some things to improve the plantation's output. According to the figures, the place shouldn't be so far in the hole, but clearly it was. He'd have to be creative.

He'd suspended all work while he figured out what to do, though he was still paying the men. An expense that Bucky had argued over, but one he felt was better than continuing practices that didn't seem to be working and he couldn’t let the men and their families starve. He was alone in the office when there was a knock on the door.

“Enter,” he said vaguely, finger running down a line of figures.

“Well, well. Lookit Li'l Stevie, all grown up and in the big chair.”

Steve looked up, rolling his eyes.

“You're not supposed to be here,” he said. “I suspended work.”

“That's exactly _why_ I'm here, _bougre_ ,” Tony smirked, a slow quirk of his mouth. “You're bleedin’ money.”

“I know,” Steve said. “But I'd be bleeding more burning diesel and blunting saw blades with practices that aren't working.”

“But they _are_ workin’,” Tony argued, shifting the folder he was holding by his thigh. “I know where the m-”

“What could _you_ possibly know?” Steve asked, a derisive curl of his lip on the 'you'.

Tony narrowed his eyes, tried to remind himself Steve was grieving, and took a breath. His voice was still even and calm when he spoke again.

“I know where the money's been goin’. And it ain’t through bad practices.”

Steve eyed him, blue eyes keen and appraising. But there was that ever-present slight tilting of his head. Not a physical thing, not really, but a sense that he was constantly looking down his nose at Tony.

“Go on then, if you're so clever,” he said, the implied disbelief almost a physical thing.

It made Tony bristle, hackles rising like an angry dog. Yet did he keep his calm, taking another breath, reminding himself once more. _He's grieving. He's angry and upset. Be the bigger man. And break it to him gentle. Don’t let the satisfaction of proving Howard was a lyin’ addict show._

“Your dear ol’ Dad was pissin’ it away on horses and greyhounds and rooster fightin’.”

...Not quite as gentle as it should have been.

Steve's hands fisted on the desk, his teeth gritting. Logically, it made sense. His figures said they should be turning quite a hefty profit, but they _weren't_.

“My Father _wasn't_ a gambler,” he said tightly, stubbornly.

“ _Mais oui_ ,” Tony said just as stubbornly. “He was. He was, Stevie. How else do you explain the debts when the numbers there tell you otherwise?”

Steve's eyes flicked down to the ledger before him and he opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn't formulate a counter-argument. Besides, it made sense with his father's behaviors as well. His mouth snapped closed, his gaze darted down the figures. He opened it again, but Tony threw his own slim ledger on the desk.

“That's how. That explains it,” he said stubbornly.

Steve swallowed, his fingers smoothing nervously against the folder before he slid his hand to one side and opened it. He took in the figures, mouth thinning out. He didn't know all of the payee names, but he recognised enough of them to know they were shady characters.

His jaw tensed again. For a long moment, he was silent, then he lifted his eyes to catch Tony watching him like a hungry mountain cat watches a deer.

“ _Vous êtes magnifique,_ ” he said lowly, smirking. Steve had no idea what he'd said, but the tone of his voice rose heat in the blonde's neck. 

“Get out,” he said tightly.

Tony's smirk fell away and his tone was harsher than he meant, but he had to make Steve _see_.

“The debts are rooted in gamblin’, Steve. You're jus’ lucky it's not the actual bookies he owes, but the banks and businesses he's been unable to pay. He wasn't completely stupid.”

Steve glared.

“Get. Out.”

Tony dragged his hand through his hair, rolling his eyes slightly.

“Fine. Fine. But you're goin’ to need me, Steve. It was never Howard who ran this place.”

And he turned, stalking out of the office.

Steve rubbed a hand over his face, sighed, and went back to the figures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch  
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	7. Guilt

“You’re not going to keep him as a foreman,” Bucky said, pushing his spoon around his bowl of soup. His mouth was a slash of displeasure. “I don’t care how good he thinks he is.”

See, the thing about Bucky was… He just didn’t like that Carter guy. It was more than dislike. It was an intense aversion to the man that was beaten into his brain and backside years and years ago. Ever since they were little, they were warned away from the Cajun brat that lived in the bayou. They weren’t to speak to or associate with him, even at school, even though they were several classes apart. Howard had made sure they learned that lesson all too well.

But the thing about that, too, was that Tony had a way of making people pay attention to him. He was loud, obnoxious and abrasive. He was a terror to anyone resembling authority when it interfered with what he wanted to do and he, in no way, took shit from people who looked down on him, drawing people to him like moths to a flame. Most boys wanted to be friends with him. Most girls wanted to taste a bit of that mysterious side. Even Bucky had fallen prey to it against his better judgment. He’d tried to befriend Tony and when he had, the older boy had stared at him like Bucky was a puzzle or a trick and shook his head.

Bucky was left to envy Tony from afar. Jealousy was a bitter pill to swallow in regards to the seeming freedom with which Tony moved through their world, not tied down by society’s expectations like the ‘Stark boys’. So as early as he could, Bucky rebelled against those expectations, letting Steve grow into the mantle of the future head of their father’s company.

And then his world changed…

~ ~ ~

_“You’re always watching him,” Bucky said, snapping Steve’s gaze to him quickly. The younger boy flushed, fiddling with his pencil awkwardly. “What are you drawing anyway, Stevie?”_

_“N-nothing,” Steve stammered. “Just the dancers, Buck.”_

_“The dancers, huh? Not Carter?” Bucky asked, a forced casual note in his teenaged tone._

_“No,” Steve said and Bucky could see him square his scrawny shoulders from the corner of his eye. “And I’m not always watching him. He was just boasting loudly about his birthday and I looked over there. It’s not… I don’t always watch him.”_

_“Easy, Stevie,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Don’t hurt yourself. Have you seen Natasha? I wanted to dance, but I’ve only seen her sister.”_

_“Um, no. I haven’t seen either of the Miss Romanoffs,” Steve sighed._

_“Aw, man,” Bucky pushed away from the table his brother had commandeered at the edge of the square. “Well, you see her you let her know I want to dance.”_

_“Sure thing, Bucky,” Steve replied, staring studiously down at his closed sketchbook. Bucky reached out to ruffle his brother’s hair and got swatted for his efforts. He meandered away from Steve, pondering his brother quietly as he searched for Natasha. It wasn’t the first time he’d caught Steve watching the newly-turned twenty year-old thoughtfully, like he was the symbol of greener grass and he doubted that it’d be the last._

_But this was the first time he’d caught Carter looking back and with an expression he knew fairly well. He’d seen plenty of men looking that way at the girls they thought were pretty. And Bucky wasn’t an adult like Carter, just having turned sixteen, but he was fairly sure that there was an edge to that expression, an edge he’d seen on the men who trawled the ladies around the shadowed alleys and loitered piers._

_It scared him, punching a cool chill down his spine because everyone knew men weren’t supposed to look at other men like that. And Steve wasn’t even a man yet and Carter dared… Carter dared to look at his brother that way and where people could see!  It was wrong; an illegal act that people had been jailed for. It was a sickness. A perversion that many sought to purge from society and Bucky refused to let it taint Steve. He didn’t care_ who _it was._

_But what could he do? Carter was already fading into the night as he left the party and he was older, bigger and stronger than Bucky was. He’d seen the boy in fights around the school and the back alleys, scuffling with other kids for the names they called him and the hate they spewed. But this was different, he couldn’t be allowed to get away with…with…_ that _. He looked around, suddenly desperate for a way, and spotted a couple men he’d seen his father with on occasion._

_“That Carter boy,” he said after hurrying over to them, eyes wide and pleading for help. “I saw that Carter boy with another boy. They were… They were doing…” he swallowed._

_“Doing what, son?” one of the men asked as they both looked the way Bucky was pointing._

_“Things,” Bucky whispered, shaking his head. “_ Sick _things. I couldn’t see much, because it’s so dark, you see, but…”_  
  
“Don’t worry, James,” the other man clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll take it care of it.”

_And just like that, Bucky watched them disappear into the dark after Carter. He stood there for a moment, fingers twitching against the cold bumps running over his skin, before returning to Steve’s table where he’d been joined by Natasha and Lorraine and a few of their schoolmates._

_The next afternoon, he let Steve drag him to the general store in town to buy more pencils to draw with. He roamed the aisles, picking up and toying with anything that caught his eye. Coming to the end of one aisle, they both looked towards the window as a commotion started up beyond in the street. A few adults spilled onto the sidewalk around them as they came out to see what was happening. He glanced at Steve as his brother leaned into him, trying to see around a woman beside them._

_People were muttering to each other, watching as Peggy Carter struggled in the dirty street with the unconscious body of her son._

_Chills raced over Bucky’s skin at the sight of Tony covered in blood, his face nearly unrecognizable beneath the injuries. One arm was hanging at an unnatural angle, dragging along the ground with broken fingers as Peggy stumbled to a stop in front of Dr. Banner’s office. Her own clothes were ragged, matted with blood and torn for bandages that she’d wrapped hastily around the worst of the bleeding._

_“What do you think happened?” a woman asked._

_“Heard he’d been messing with another boy,” someone else whispered._

_“Oh dear. Should we help her?”_

_“The devil’s in that poor child.”_

_“I went to school with Margaret. She used to be such a nice girl. Such a shame she was given such a sinful spawn.”_

_On and on, the voices continued with no one else moving to lend a hand._

_“Bucky,” Steve whispered. “Bucky, she needs help.”_

~ ~ ~

Bucky would always remember how he’d stopped Steve from going across the street; and he would always remember that she hadn’t been crying. She hadn’t been crying and she’d never asked any of them for help.

But Bucky had understood that day what he’d done.  And he’d learned to hate Anthony Carter for making him feel guilty about protecting Steve. He’d buried the guilt of facing the consequence beneath the righteousness of protecting the boy at his side. That could have been Steve, he’d thought. Steve could’ve been the one that had been found, broken and bleeding. He’d been right. He had been.

 “Father kept him on,” Steve was saying, looking at Bucky almost wearily. “so he must be as good as he thinks he is. He was managing to keep the company going even as Father...” Steve’s mouth worked a little and he sighed.

“He’s lying,” Bucky replied, dropping his spoon in his bowl and pushing it away before pointing a finger at Steve. “I don’t give a shit what that ledger says. How do you know it isn’t Carter who’s been pissing our money away?”

“But th-“ Steve began, hand settling atop the folder beside his plate.

“The ledger that _Carter_ gave you,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Which he could’ve easily made up to look however he wanted. And with Dad dead,” Steve winced. “with Dad dead, there’s no one to dispute him that really can. The bank doesn’t care where the money’s gone. They just care that they’re not getting paid.”

Steve had to admit that his brother had a point. He couldn’t trust Tony’s word. Could he? Did he have any reason to trust the man who so blatantly flaunted his disregard for propriety and boundaries? How could he trust him over his own father?

Instead, he countered with; “If we fire him, a lot of those men will walk with him, Buck.”

“Let them,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “If they’re so well off that they can quit a good job with good pay over some trash li-“

“Why do you do that?” Steve cut him off, honest curiosity in his gaze. “Why do you call him trash when you don’t even know him?”

“Because he _is_ trash, Steve,” Bucky fairly growled. “He’s always _been_ trash. Why Dad ever gave him a job in the first place, I don’t know.”

“Because he’s always worked hard,” Steve defended Tony and, god, where was this coming from? He felt a spike of panic in his gut even as he continued. “and you know that. We’ve watched him bust his ass ever since we were little to help his mother. For god’s sake, Buck, he went to _war_ for our country!”

“And Heaven would be a better place now if he’d just done us the favor of dying over there,” Bucky muttered.

Steve stood so quickly that his chair scratched across the floor and threatened to topple over.

“I’m not firing him,” he said, teeth grit and spine straight as he stalked from the dining room.

Bucky watched him leave, eyes wide. One hand clenched against the table and he resisted the urge to smash his bowl against the wall for about five seconds. The fine china splintered and hit the floor with a crash, soup and dish mixing against the expensive wood flooring.

“Goddammit.”

\- - - - - - -

 “You there,” Steve called, stopping his horse in the middle of a field near the edge of the bayou. Rhodey looked up from where he was crouched with a pile of roots.

“O’ Lordy,” he muttered to himself before standing and brushing off his pants. “Here we go.  What can I be doin’ for ya, Master Stark?”

Steve frowned at the blatant sarcasm, but let it go, still fuming over his argument with Bucky.

“Where’s Carter?” he demanded, hands tight around the reins. His horse shifted a bit at the tension, feet stamping close to Rhodey’s roots. “I need to talk to him.”

“Carter,” Rhodey repeated, stooping to grab his pile before the horse ruined them. He muttered inaudibly to himself. “Carter, I don’ know, sir. Up near the tupelo grove earlier las’ I seen ‘im, but he be comin’ and goin’…and goin’ more often than not. Somethin’ up with the business? Anyt’ing I can help ya with, sir?”

Steve was looking out towards the forest and grimaced.

“Yes, actually,” he said, swinging down from the saddle and all but shoving the reins at the darker man. “Take Squirt back to the stables for me.”

Rhodey fumbled with the reins and his pile of roots and glared at Steve’s back as the man strode off into the bayou like he was going off to face a firing squad.

“Spoiled ass like ‘im ain’t never even held a rake I bet,” Rhodey grumbled, tucking the roots into his bag and stomping off towards the stables. A good mile from where Steve had found him.

He really hadn’t thought this through, Steve decided as he entered into the steamy copse of trees. He at least should have changed out of his fine suit, knowing it wouldn’t fare well with damp moss and hanging vines. He picked his way carefully around a few fallen logs, slipping here and there as his shoes weren’t made for gripping smooth surfaces.

“Damn,” he muttered, pushing a few hangings from his view and continuing on towards where he thought he’d seen the gum trees. It wasn’t until an hour of this that he realized he was lost.

“Double damn,” Steve stopped, raking a hand through his now-damp hair. He put his hands on his hips, shirt clinging to his arms and back, and he felt just…so not clean. He made a face and looked back the way he’d come, gaze flicking briefly up to the sky he could see through the tops of the trees. It was getting dark, but it was still early afternoon and the first of the drops began to patter through the leaves. Rain. “Of course. Of course! Thank you, world. You’re so nice! Really, ace helping! Whoever thought living out here would be a fantastic idea?! Oh, I know! I’ll go build a house in the middle of a swamp. What is he, part ogre?”

“ _Oui_ , on my father’s side actually.”

Steve stopped his red-faced ranting and his shoulders drooped for a moment. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose before turning around to face Tony.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, anger deflating to embarrassment. Tony smirked, lounging against the base of a thick cypress tree. He had a cigarette hanging from his lips, unlit as of yet, and was casually whittling a random stick with a knife that looked cleaner than his fingernails.

“ _Oui, je sais,_ ” Tony replied, mouth quirking. “I’ve been watching you.”

“Yo-“ Steve cut off, taking a deep and steadying breath. “Of course you have. Let me guess, from the beginning?”

“No, _cher_ ,” the older man chuckled. “Only for ‘bout twenty minutes. You’re loud in here. It wasn’t hard to find you.”

“Well, it’s not exactly my fault,” Steve defended, ignoring the flare of heat at Tony’s amused tone. “It’s not like I got to grow up in here like you did.”

Tony tilted his head, watching Steve with a fond quirk of his mouth. He reached up to light his cigarette and waved the match out. Steve caught the scent of sulfur and couldn’t stop his inhale.

“Did you want to, _cher?_ ”

“Yes. I mean,” Steve colored slightly. “What? Did I want to what? And haven’t I said not to call me that?”

“Repeatedly and grow up here,” Tony grinned, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “This ain’t the first time I’ve found you wandering around lost.”

“No, I… It’s not that I wanted to grow up here,” Steve shook his head. “I just never understood why we couldn’t come into the trees. I mean, I know we weren’t supposed to…you know...but this is still part of our home.”

Tony pursed his mouth, eying Steve as he absently flicked ashes.

“It’s dangerous in here. Your ol’ man didn’t want you gettin’ caught up in somethin’ you couldn’t understand,” he replied, tone suggesting he was speaking of something more than just the animals.

Steve blinked and expelled a breath.

“That’s not…” he waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. The past is the past and it’s not why I was looking for you.”

“ _Ouais_?” Tony shifted against the tree, hip cocking out subtly in suggestion. “Why were you lookin’ for me, _cher?_ Were you lookin’ for more comfort?”

Steve felt another, immediate wave of heat. It pooled low in his gut and threatened to take his breath. He couldn’t stop the swallow or the trip of his gaze over Tony’s body, but he fisted his hands and tipped his chin up. That wasn’t why he was here. The ledger. He had to confirm that Tony wasn’t lying. Or that he was and force the truth out of him.

Tony’s tongue flicked out along his bottom lip, one brow rising as he waited through Steve’s struggle.

“Kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch   
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	8. Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains artwork from the amazing GQD (AO3)/GarnetQuyen (Tumblr).

“Kiss me.”

It was begging and demanding all at once, voice teetering between both and settling on neither.

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the staccato singing of cicadas. The words hung. Steve felt like _he_ hung there, pinned in place, wide eyed, barely able to believe what he'd just said. He opened his mouth as though he would take it back, closed it again, clearly still struggling with himself.

Tony remained lax, no hint to his thoughts in his laconic posture.

Then he was there. There. God. He was. Sliding up against Steve, the cigarette lost to the swampy ground.

“Is _that_ what you want, _cher_?” the Cajun asked, his voice a low, heady growl against Steve's skin. He tilted his head back, the tip of his nose dragging slow up the hollow of the blonde's throat, brushing against his chin.

Steve didn't get it. How could Tony choose to stand lower than he was, on the ground while he was elevated on a tree root, and _still hold all the power_?

“Is that why you came here?”

The words were hard to hear above the sound of his own heart, hard to make out through his own trembling, but he _felt_ them, visceral and low, hummed against his own throat. Vulnerable. Yes. He felt... but.

“Part of your home, you say, Li'l Stevie...” Tony went on, his fingers sliding through the gap between the buttons of Steve's jacket, slow, sinuous. “Part of your _bones_ , _cher_. The bayou... she gets inside.”

Steve tried to say something. To argue. To back out of what he'd asked for. To agree. To urge Tony on. He didn't know. But it didn't matter, because all that left him was a keening little sound.

Tony laughed, barely. Little more than an exhale that fluttered against Steve's rain-and-sweat-damp skin. Now he came up on the tree root, by way of twisting the hand inside Steve's jacket into the vest beneath, the other in his lapel and levering himself up. He knew Steve could take the weight, and indeed the blonde didn't even budge.

He was pressed to Steve, now, so tight the rain only fell on their backs.

“I know, _cher_ , I know...” Tony purred, eye to eye with him even as he stared and panted. “You want her there.”

Now his breath ghosted across Steve's own mouth, rich and vital and _Tony_. He tilted his head again, nudged _further_ into Steve's space with nose and mouth.

“You want _me_ there...” he finished, lips ghosting, promising, but giving nothing.

Steve's lips parted on another soft sound. He rallied his tongue enough to say; “Yes.”

Tony sighed across his mouth, but it was more like power and heat than sorrow or even happiness. A smirk curved his lips briefly, then he closed the distance between them, and it wasn't a chaste kiss but nor was it rough. His tongue demanded and gained instant access to Steve's mouth and he licked his way in, gentle but intense, deep and sure.

Sure in a way Steve had never felt before.

He'd never understood the fascination for kissing. When they were young, Bucky had bragged all the time about it, but the first time he tried it, he didn't see what the fuss was about, and every other kiss he'd had was much the same.

But this. This was different. This sent little rivulets of heat skimming down his neck and across his arms, frissons of energy darting up his spine. He surged forward, meaning to meet the kiss and his arms came up to wrap around Tony, but the motion toppled them off the tree root, landing them in the mushy undergrowth with a splash.

Tony's hands came automatically to steady him, but he'd already caught himself, propped above Tony on locked-elbow arms. He panted, looking down at the other man, water dripping off his fringe.

Tony tipped his head back, looking down his nose, and smirked.

“Another?” he offered.

Steve nodded wordlessly and Tony leaned up, claiming his mouth again. The hand inside his jacket, fixed to his vest, didn't let go. He wasn't releasing Steve any time soon. The blonde began to relax, lowering himself on trembling arms until he was laying full length along Tony in the mud and water.

They kissed. He didn't know how long. Long enough for Tony's grip to relax, to snake back out of his jacket and press up under the back of it instead, pushing layers of material away until his hands could flatten against skin.

_“Cher_ ,” he breathed often, between kisses. “Li'l Stevie.”

“Tony,” Steve found himself saying. “Anthony.”

A grumble at the full name, but Steve's mouth tugged into a grin.  
  
“I like it,” he said.

“ _Oui, oui_ ,” Tony replied, dragging out the words. “And we must let Li'l Stevie have what he likes.”

“ _Oui_ ,” Steve replied.

Tony smirked, his hands pushed higher, and rain fell on the small of Steve's back, but he barely noticed.

“You like _me_ ,” he growled lowly, brooking no argument.

Steve flushed.

“Kiss me,” he said again in lieu of answering.

Tony leaned up, nosing at his throat again and Steve felt himself baring it further, tipping his head, arching slightly.

“Kiss _me_ ,” Tony challenged.

Steve glanced down at him, grinning. He dipped his head. Challenge accepted.

“Steve!”

His head snapped up again like he'd been shot, wild blue eyes looking into the middle-distance as he tried to judge how far away the call was. He looked down at Tony again.

“I-” he started, but Tony kissed him again, and he felt that popping and zinging of energy beginning to overtake him, but... “Tony.”

“He's a long way off...”

Steve shook his head and pushed out of Tony's grip, getting to his feet. He offered a hand to help Tony up and the man allowed it, using the momentum to get right back into Steve's space. He kissed him again and Steve melted into it, moaning softly.

“Steve!”

It was closer this time, and Steve pulled right away, though he couldn't break away so easily from Tony's heated gaze.

“I'm here, Buck!” he called, finally looking away.

Tony muttered something that was far from kind, sticking his hands in his pockets. He thought he showed a great restraint in that he wasn't just rutting against the nearest tree. Or against Steve, while pinning him to the nearest tree... Actually, that was a more pleasant thought... He smirked to himself.

“...oing here with that trash?!”

He came back to himself just in time to hear this and sighed.

“He was lost again, _bougre_ ,” Tony said in exasperation. “As I'm sure you are too.”

“Of course I'm not,” Bucky said peevishly. “I came...”

He trailed off, swinging around and eventually made a small noise of dismay. He really was completely lost.

Tony snickered.

Bucky rounded on Steve.

“What are you _doing_ out here, anyway?” he demanded.

“I came to confer about the gambling,” Steve replied tightly.

“To get more lies from him?” Bucky asked. “To what end?”

“I _didn't_ lie about this, Barnes,” Tony said, bristling at the mere suggestion.

Bucky waved a hand.

“Whatever,” he said. “Steve, let's get out of here.”

Steve folded his arms, suit jacket dripping wet, muddied and probably ruined, but he was an imposing figure nonetheless.

“How?” he asked with an arched brow.

Tony snickered again.

Bucky fisted his hand with undirected frustration and looked around. Of course he had no idea which way to go. Eventually, he whirled on Tony.  
  
“Take us out of here, Cajun,” he demanded.

A wry brow arched. Tony thought about lighting a new smoke, but realised it would just get damp in the rain. He affected a nonchalant, bored air instead.

“Hey. Do you hear me?”

Steve bristled.

“Don't talk to him like he's a dog, Bucky!”

Bucky opened his mouth, but he snapped it shut again on second thought.

“Fine,” he said. “ _Fine_. Will you take us out of here, _please_?”

It was grudging, but it was better than nothing, and Tony would help Steve out in a heartbeat anyway.

“ _Oui_ ,” he said simply.

\- - - - - - -

The moment they were alone in the house, Tony seen on his way with an expensive bottle of gin Steve had slipped him, Bucky rounded on Steve.

“He _is_ a dog, Steve. They _all_ are. Dad taught us that much.”

“Then what were _you_ doing out there if they're 'dogs', huh?” Steve demanded to know.

“That nigger friend of his brought your horse back!” Bucky replied haughtily.

Steve rolled his eyes, waving his hand dismissively. He didn't even care.

“Father was wrong,” Steve said, steely and calm. “He was _wrong_ , Bucky, can't you see that?”

Bucky curled his lip.

“Next you'll be joining all those race riots and protesting that blacks deserve to shop and eat and ride buses in the same places we do. Disgusting!”

Steve hissed.

“I didn't _say_ that, Buck. I-”

“As near as, baby brother! As near as.”

“I don't see what's _wrong_ with-”

“No. No, you never did.” Bucky jabbed a finger at him. “I've always looked out for you and you've never seen what's _wrong_ with him. He's fucking _queer_ , Steve.”

Steve's stomach dropped. He felt heat creeping up his neck and hoped Bucky wouldn't see it. He turned away, shaking his head.

“So?” he dared.

“ _So_?!” Bucky echoed, incredulous. “You know, Steve. You _know_. It's... it's...”

“Is _that_ your real problem with him?” Steve demanded. “Is that why you insist on firing him, and harping on your belief he's lying? And why you always find the worst in him?”

Bucky's eyes widened.

“What? I d-”

“You damn-well do. You've been on his back from the moment I got home.”

“And you're always so quick to support him! Am I your brother, or is he?!”

Steve didn't answer, throwing up frustrated hands instead and turning his back on Bucky. He didn't listen to anything yelled after him as he stalked up the stairs.

Steve peeled off his soaking clothes and chucked them outside the door for the servants, then threw himself on the bed in only his small-clothes. It was too hot for anything more anyway.

He took out his sketchbook and flipped through his work to a new blank page. He carved angry lines across the page, eventually creating a locomotive filled with smoke and fire. Once he had that out of his system, he turned another page and set to work much more calmly.

He knew what he would draw before he even started, and sure enough, the drawing started to take shape. The cocked hip, the steady fingers, the apparent nonchalance in his features, but eyes that held so much more.

He was working for a good hour before there was a knock at the door.

He ignored it, but it came more insistently.

“What?” he said after a tight sigh.

One of the maids put her head in the door.

“I'm sorry, Sir,” she said, averting her eyes. “Miss Romanoff is on the telephone for you.”

Steve's mouth worked. The last person he wanted to speak to right now was Miss Romanoff. He thought of Tony. Of his mouth. His hands. His tongue.

He couldn't. He couldn't give into it. He had a business to run, a family name to uphold. He couldn't muddy it with... He just _couldn't_.

He sighed.

“I'll be there momentarily,” he said.

She bobbed her head and disappeared. He quickly dressed, somewhat at least, then went to answer the phone, pushing everything else, every desire, every tamped need away.

He would do what he had to do, even if it wasn't what he _wanted_ to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch  
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	9. Rage

It wasn’t until a week had passed that Tony realized that Steve was actually going out of his way to avoid him.

A week after _that_ , it only took one trip into town to understand.

That day in the bayou had been too good to be true. Tony had known better than to get his hopes up, but he’d also known deep down that Steve had wanted it, wanted _him_. Now, he was stuck leaning against Dr. Banner’s office window while he listened to some chattering girl talk about how absolutely ‘darling’ Steve and Lorraine were together.

“They’ve gone out at least three times this past week,” she was saying and Tony was sorry he’d even brought it up after catching sight of the pair strolling away from the diner down the street. “Everyone’s pretty sure he’s gonna pop the question.”

“Tha’s great,” Tony replied on a thin stream of smoke. The flat-edged tone made her blink and then smile slowly, affecting seductiveness in her pose.

“Oh, _cher_ ,” she said and Tony bit back a grimace at the butchered term. “You ain’t got a _thing_ for li’l Miss Lorraine, do you? You know her daddy ain’t gonna let a good girl like her anywhere near them jeans of yours.”

“Shut up, Chrissy,” Tony flicked his cigarette and pushed off the wall as he started to walk away, opposite of the way Steve and Lorraine had gone. No use stirring trouble up in town while it was still early enough for window shoppers. Chrissy fell into step beside him, fancy heels clicking on the sidewalk.

“You know,” she said slyly. “I was just thinkin’.”

“Do you need aspirin for your headache?”

“I was just thinkin’,” she repeated loudly over Tony’s eye roll. “That maybe it ain’t li’l Miss Lorraine your jeans are bunchin’ for, Carter.”

Tony stopped, shoulders tensing. He pulled out his wallet and shoved some money into Chrissy’s hand.

“What?” Chrissy narrowed her eyes. “But we ain’t even fucked yet, Carter.”

“Go spend it on booze n’ leave me the hell alone, Chrissy,” Tony fairly spat, leaving her staring after him as he cut through the alleys towards the logging base.

As Tony walked into the logging camp, his mood only darkened. It was the middle of the week and the camp was empty. There were no signs that any work had been done as the goddamn Stark brats had yet to reopen the business. They were still arguing over the missing money and who was at fault, but the longer they kept at it, the more surprised they’d be when the company fell through from something as simple as inaction.

Fury stole through Tony’s veins and he stalked his way over to a shed to grab one of the axes. He needed to work his anger out anyway, so he might as well cut some of the damn logs that were stacked off to the side, left to rot while boys decided whether they wanted to keep playing or not.

That’s where Rhodey found him, three hours later and losing the fading sun to the evening.

“You wanna talk ‘bout it, boss?” he asked, finding a perch on the tailpipe of one of their trucks.

“Ain’t nothin’ to talk ‘bout, Rhodey,” Tony replied with a slight strain as his axe bit into its next wooded victim. “Starks are shit. This company’s goin’ to shit and there ain’t nothin’ either o’ us can do ‘bout it. We might as well pack up n’ get the hell outta here. You still wantin’ to go up North, mon ami?”

Rhodey watched him silently for a few minutes. His friend was covered in dirt and sweat and chips of wood as he continued to chop.

“You’s runnin’ from him now?” Rhodey asked finally, propping one arm up along a bent knee. “You got your kiss. You made him wan’ ya n’ now you’s jus’ gonna leave? Or did ya finally hear them rumors tha’ be flowin’ like a river through town? Ya always knew he was gonna marry one o’ them girls, Tones. He’s too pure blood for anythin’ else.”

“ _Putain de Christ!_ ” Tony slammed the axe down into the next log, lodging it there and bending over to brace his hands on his knees. He breathed heavily, teeth grit as he tried to calm himself down. “I’m gettin’ real sick o’ people tellin’ me how we are. You. That bastard Bucky. That tramp Chrissy. I’m done, Rhodey. I ain’t listenin’ to it anymore. It doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”

Rhodey watched Tony’s shoulders slump and then rise with a deep breath.

“Tony…” he said slowly.

“ _He_ doesn’t matter,” Tony said softly, the lie wrenching its way around his heart. The words tasted like blood as they rose from his throat.

“Tony, y-“ Rhodey started only to be cut off by Bucky stalking his way down the loading hill. He and Tony both straightened to face the Stark son as he approached.

“Carter! What the hell are you doing here?!”

Tony wasn’t really in the mood for Bucky at the moment. He raised a brow, one hand landing on the axe handle beside him.

“Plantin’ flowers, Barnes,” he replied. “Tulips and maybe some o’ them daffodils that bloom white n’ yell-“

“Cut the bullshit, Carter,” Bucky slashed a hand through the air. “My brother isn’t here to find you amusing. The company is closed, so no one’s supposed to be here. That includes trash like you and your nig-“

“You finish that word n’ I’ll put my boot up your ass, _bougre,_ ” Tony growled, feeling Rhodey tense behind him. “As for bein’ here, these logs ain’t gonna do nothin’ but rot sittin’ here waitin’ on you n’ Li’l Stevie to get your heads outta your asses.”

Bucky stepped forward, no longer the little boy afraid of Anthony Carter. His hands were fisted at his sides, but he brought one up to jam a finger against Tony’s chest.

“Keep my brother’s name out of your mouth, Carter,” Bucky warned, one finger jab for every other word. “Keep your goddamn distance and don’t even _look_ at him. I know what you are and I’m warning you to keep your queer hands off my brother! Now get out of here before I have you arrested for trespassing.”

“Boss, c’mon,” Rhodey muttered, curling a few fingers in Tony’s sweat-soaked shirt and ready to pull Tony away if things got too heated. Tony shrugged his friend off, meeting Bucky’s cold glare with his own. 

“I’m going to leave, Barnes, but not because you told me,” Tony said slowly and very clearly. “I’m leaving because I’m the bigger man here and _Steve_ wouldn’t appreciate it if I bruised your pretty face.”

Bucky’s lip curled and he planted one hand on Tony’s shoulder to push the man away. Rhodey stumbled back while steadying Tony as the Cajun muttered a curse.

“What’s with you Starks and pushin’?!”

“Go home, Carter,” Bucky growled angrily and then finished just as clearly as Tony, mocking and cruel. “and take your nigger with you.”

“God damn,” Rhodey breathed softly, eyes closing in defeat as Tony surged forward. There was a shout of indiscriminate rage as Tony’s fist slammed into Bucky’s nose. As Bucky reeled from the hit, Tony grabbed at Bucky’s head and dragged it down to meet the hard bend of his knee.

“Fuck!” Bucky choked out, landing on the ground with his hands over his face. Pain exploded behind his eyes, dancing spots across his vision as blood seeped between his fingers and he glared up at Tony. “You son-of-a-bitch!”

Bucky barely got the words out before Tony was on him again, straddling the younger man against the ground and raising his fist once more.

“ _Ca va_ , Tony!” Rhodey shouted, grabbing Tony’s wrist with both of his hands. “He ain’t worth it, Tony! C’mon!”

Tony barely let Rhodey pull him away, struggling off of Bucky who pushed to his feet, swearing up a storm.

“You’re a goddamn animal, Carter!” Bucky yelled, spitting blood. “They should fucking burn trash like you! Get the fuck off my property and don’t come back. You’re fired!”

“You’re a fuckin’ fool, Barnes,” Tony snapped back, following the pull of Rhodey’s hands as they backed away. “You fire me n’ this whole fuckin’ place will sink faster than my dick in your brother’s a-“

Bucky snarled and launched himself into Tony, tackling him into the pile of chopped wood. Rough edges cut into Tony’s back and he cursed, trying to throw Bucky off, but the other man had the top-heavy leverage. He fisted Tony’s hair and slammed his head back into a log.

“Tony!” Rhodey shouted as Tony’s vision clouded and he thrust his hands wildly up to Bucky’s face, thumbs gouging into his eyes. Bucky reared back and slammed Tony’s head down again.

“You won’t touch him!  I’ll kill you first! I’ll fucking kill you, Carter!” he yelled.

 “You’re…too late!” Tony dug his fingers into Bucky’s wrists, feeling bones grind together. A finger snapped beneath his own. “I’ve already had my Cajun hands all o’er ‘im! N’ he was fuckin’ beggin’ me for it!”

Tony saw the moment that Bucky’s vision went red, pain and anger clouding the other’s gaze until he had one hand curling around the handle of the axe. Knee digging into Tony’s chest, he pressed down with all his weight to yank the axe free.

“They should’ve made sure you were dead all those years ago!” Bucky spat, voice shaking with fury. The axe jarred free with a splintering of wood. “This time, I’ll make sure it fucking sticks!”

The sun slid along the edge of the axe’s blade as Bucky lifted it and Tony bared his teeth.

“You gonna kill me, Barnes?! You think that’ll solve the problem of your brother bein’ queer?! Go ahead! Do it, Barnes! I fuckin’ want you to!”

Bucky snarled again, the sound grating as it pushed out around a heavy breath. His arm wavered, but before he could bring the axe down, a slat of chopped wood impacted against his temple.

Tony’s eyes widened in shock as Bucky blinked once. The axe dropped, unused, to the ground beside them as Bucky slumped forward against Tony, unconscious.

Tony continued to stare, now at Rhodey who looked as shocked as he did, fingers as pale as they could be with their grip around the wood.

“What did you do?” Tony gasped, the question quiet and full of disbelief.

“Tones… Oh god, Tony,” Rhodey dropped the wood and backed up. “Did I...? Is he…?”

“What did you _do_?!” Tony shouted, panic and fear blooming hot and fast in his chest as he shook Bucky’s shoulders and didn’t get a response. He pushed Bucky up and to the side before laying him on the ground to check his pulse.

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t let ‘im do it, Tony,” Rhodey choked out. “He woulda killed ya!”

Tony felt a wave of nausea pass over him and he swayed a little as he felt the faint heart beat in Bucky’s throat.

“Oh fuck,” he squeezed his eyes shut, felt the blood trickling down his neck. “Oh fuck. You gotta get outta here, Rhodey. Ya gotta go!”

“I ain’t leavin’ ya, Tony!” Rhodey straightened, still pale and slightly unsteady now himself. “I ain’t leavin’ ya ta deal wit’ this alone.”

“You goddamn idiot,” Tony shot up, swayed and caught Rhodey’s hand as he reached out to steady him. “They’ll fuckin’ lynch ya for this! Go! I’ll… I’ll take care of this… Jus’ go!”

“Tony,” Rhodey said. “Tony, I’m sorry. I’m so-“

“Rhodey,” Tony looked up at him, gaze dark and pained. “Worry about yourself for once and go. _S’il vous plait! Juste aller!”_

Rhodey backed up, expression twisting and breaking. Finally, he gave a short nod and turned, picking up speed until he was running and out of sight.

Tony dropped to his knees beside Bucky, hands flexing in his lap. He swallowed again, feeling bile rise in his throat as he thought about what he had to do. He gathered Bucky closer and pushed unsteadily to his feet, fumbling with Bucky’s larger body until he had the man over his shoulder. He braced himself for a moment, taking a steadying breath before he began the very slow, painful march into town.

He tried very hard not to think about what a picture this was. Bucky knocked out over his shoulder, both of them dirty and blood-covered. He tried very hard not to let the stone of realization sink in his stomach as he tried to come up with something the Doctor and the police would believe. Something they would believe long enough for Tony to get his shit and get out of Heaven before Bucky came to enough to condemn both him and Rhodey.

Tony’s throat closed up. No matter what could have happened, it was all over now. There was no coming back from this.

_“Kiss me.”_

The back alleys of Heaven came into view and it felt like his legs would sink into the ground.

_“Anthony... I like it.”_

Tony did his best to ignore the few people that were still milling around on the streets as he emerged from an alley and paced himself towards Dr. Banner’s.

_“Kiss me again.”_

Tony grit his teeth and fairly kick Dr. Banner’s door down. He slumped against the doorjamb, tiring quickly with his own injuries and Bucky’s added weight. The man hadn’t stirred yet and Tony tried not to think about that either.

“Ah, Antho-oh goodness!” Dr. Banner exclaimed as he pulled the door open. The rest of it was a blur as Bruce and his assistant got Bucky laid out on a table to start examining. Tony swayed again, slumping back against the wall. He blinked, trying to clear his vision.

“What happened? Was there an accident at the logging camp?” Bruce asked as they began cleaning the wound on Bucky’s temple.

“We were…” Tony shook his head slightly and succeeded in causing another wave of dizziness. He had to get out of there. “We were fixing a stacking of logs. The chains snapped, caused the pile to… to collapse… Is he gonna be okay, Doc?”

“Too soon to tell,” Bruce shook his head, dropping bloody gauze into a waste basket by his feet. “His head wound is pretty swollen and it looks like his nose is broken. He’s got a pulse, but it’s faint. Darcy, fetch yourself up to the manor and retrieve Steven.”

Tony slid down the wall a little as Darcy rushed past him and out of the office, pushing his hand out to stand himself back up. Bruce looked over the edge of his glasses.

“What about you, Anthony?” the doctor asked. “You’re covered in blood.”

“It’s his,” Tony said instantly, too quickly as Bruce’s brow furrowed. “From… carrying him. I’m fine. I just need to lie down. You got Rogers comin’, so I’m just gonna…”

“Stay for a bit longer,” Bruce said, stooping slightly to examine Bucky’s temple after having washed away the dirt and blood. The wound was still sluggishly bleeding. “I just want to check you over.”

The bell over the door jingled and Tony winced as a policeman stepped into the office.

“Ran into Miss Lewis outside,” the Deputy Hammer said, glancing at Tony and then to Bruce and Bucky. “She said Mr. Stark had been hurt. What happened?”

“There was an accident at the logging camp. He and Anthony were caught under some logs. He just brought James in,” the doctor said. “If you could just wait while I finish doing what I can. Anth-“

But the bell over the door had already rung again and Tony was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch  
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	10. Doctor

Steve was almost at a run, having outstripped Darcy fifty paces ago, panic blooming high in his breast. Her garbled version of what was going on had instantly catapulted him out of his desk chair and into a jog, which had turned into this almost-run.

He was so focused on wild thoughts of what could have happened to Bucky, that he didn't even see Tony until he'd literally run into the man. Tony staggered back, tripped. Steve grabbed for his hand but it was slick with blood and he lost his grip.

Tony looked up at Steve, looked at the blood smeared down the expensive cream suit.

Jesus, Joseph and Mary. There was so much blood. Was it his or Bucky's? He didn't even know.

Steve was staring at his own hand, then he looked to Tony.

“T-Tony?” he said, reaching out, but Tony recoiled. He hardly deserved any sympathy from the blonde. “Tony?” More insistent this time, but the Cajun shook his head.

“Your brother,” he said haltingly. “You should...”

But Steve _didn't_. He hung there, undecided, glancing at the doctor's surgery, then back to Tony.

“But Tony. Are you... Did you get hurt?”

It had been an all out, ferocious, barbaric brawl. Hell, yes, he was hurt. But he shook his head, then nodded slightly, then;

“A li'l. Nothin' that you should mind. Go on in to your brother, Li'l Stevie. Go on. Go.”

But still he wouldn't leave.

“But Tony, if you're injured-”

Tony bristled, simmering anger and powerful fear driving him to his feet to push Steve in the chest with both bloodied hands.

“I said _go_! _Casse-toi_! The whole damned world doesn't revolve around you, Steven! I'm fine. Your brother could be _dyin'_. Get in there!”

He fisted his hand in Steve's lapel and swung him around, half-throwing him towards the door of the surgery, marking him with more blood.

Steve looked at him, wounded and shaken.

“...Fine...” he said eventually and pushed through the door.

Tony put his hands to his face, smearing more blood there. Darcy caught up, puffing, and paused.

“Tony? Did Dr. Banner say you could-”

“Leave me be!” Tony snarled and pushed past her as well, taking off back into the bayou.

\- - - - - - -

It was a long night. Steve spent it on the porch of the surgery, Dr. Banner having thrust him out the door almost immediately after explaining to him what they were going to do. He alternately paced and sat with his head in his hands, scratching at dried blood on his hands. Tony's, he thought. Or maybe Bucky's. Or both.

At some point, he stripped out of his bloodstained clothes, down to his singlet, tossing aside jacket, vest, shirt. It was cooler anyway. He was so sick of feeling so hot all the time.

He dozed fitfully, waking – or stirring, really – with sore shoulders and neck.

Then he would go back to pacing, hands always moving. He wished for his sketchbook, for a way to keep his hands busy, but he dare not leave the porch. He couldn't bare if... if... Bucky... and he wasn't there.

In the wee small hours, when the sound of crickets was high and the temperature had lowered to something at least bearable, Dr. Banner half-staggered out of his surgery, wiping his hands on a damp cloth.

Steve jumped up, his hands twisting together, flaking blood falling from them. Bruce spied this and handed the cloth over. Steve wiped his hands mechanically as the doctor began to speak.

“We've set his broken finger and done our best with his nose, but there's nothing we can do about his rib except let it heal natural. It hasn't impacted on his lungs, but he'll need to be careful when he...” Bruce trailed off, a significant pause hanging between them before he amended; “If he wakes up. We had to...” Another long pause, as if he was weighing what Steve needed to hear and what he didn't. “There was quite a significant surgery to relieve pressure on his brain where the log struck him.”

“How significant?” Steve demanded, hands on hips.

“I don't think-”

“ _Tell_ me, Doctor,” he growled.

Bruce sighed, dragging his hand through his hair.

“We had repaired and stitched everything else we could, cleaned the wound, fixed the damage outside his skull, but he was still dying. I've seen it before, in the same sort of accidents. Just like any other part of the body, the brain can bruise. Bruising is just a build up of blood from broken blood vessels, and anywhere else, it doesn't cause any major problems, but in the brain, it has nowhere to go and it causes pressure that can damage it. The only option was to release that pressure, and the only way to do that is by boring a hole into the skull.”

Steve almost wished he hadn't asked.

“And... and did it work?”

Bruce shrugged.

“He stabilized. We'll know if it worked or not if he wakes up.” Another pregnant pause, and god Steve was getting sick of those. “Even if he does wake up, Steve. We don't know... We can't tell how much damage was done to the brain itself, either by the original blow or the buildup of blood.”

“What are you...? Are you saying he could be... that he might be brain-damaged?”

“Yes, Steve. That's exactly what I'm saying and you need to prepare yourself for that.”

Steve stared at him.

“Pre... How does someone prepare themselves for something like that?!” he demanded.

Bruce's eyes were compassionate.

“I don't know, Steve. I honestly don't know. But there are plenty of people around here who'll help you.”

Steve's mouth pressed into a bitter line. Help him? How could anyone help him with that? He didn't even know how to help himself.

“Can I see him?” he asked in lieu of answering.

Bruce nodded and stepped aside.

Darcy was finishing cleaning up as he entered. Bucky lay in what appeared a peaceful sleep, wounds stitched, bones set. There was a bandage around his head, crisp and white. Steve slumped on the chair beside him and slid his hand carefully into Bucky's.

“Hey, Buck,” he said, trying for a smile. “Just have to have all the attention, don't you?”

Darcy smiled sympathetically and reached over to pat his shoulder before she took the last of the bloodied cloth and used syringes out of the room.

Steve bowed his head over their hands, gritting his teeth.

“You can't let this beat you, Buck. What? A bit of wood falls on you and you check out?” A derisive laugh. “I thought you were better than that.”

Bucky didn't even stir. The only movement was the slow rise and fall of his chest.

\- - - - - - -

Tony came awake with a gasp, body jackknifing on... the bed? He looked wildly around from his face-down position, and was surprised find his own four familiar walls. He blinked, then groaned as a myriad of pains that had been masked by the adrenaline of his waking fear flared to life.

How did he get here? The last he remembered...

Throwing Steve towards the door of the surgery, taking off into the bayou. He'd run – more like stumbled – as far as he could, but he lost his way, confused and disoriented as he never usually was. The place where Bucky had slammed his head against the wood didn't seem to have any intentions of giving up bleeding, sluggish though it might be, and he knew in a vague, detached sort of way that he was lost because of it.

He couldn't think straight and, after a while, he couldn't walk straight either, weaving this way and that, trying to find some familiar landmark of some sort. Darkness began to form at the corners of his vision and he wasn't sure if the sun was setting or...

Then nothing.

Then this, flat out on his stomach with his head and his torso from armpit to waist bandaged.

He must have passed out, he reasoned, but who had found him? Who had brought him back?

The porch creaked and Tony stilled, until a mosquito buzzed by his ear and he automatically slapped at it. The bandages across his back pulled and he jarred his already tender head, causing a yelp.

Whoever was on the porch became aware of his wakefulness and hurried to re-enter. Momentarily, a lantern hanging on the porch silhouetted him, then he entered the room proper.

Tony blazed with anger.

He swore in French, English and even a bit of Spanish.

“Rhodey! What the fuckin' _fuck_ are you doin' here?!”

Rhodey shrugged.

“Couldn't leave you, boss,” he said, folding his hands together. “I got some ways off, then I thought... when that rich boy wakes up... he's gonna tell what happened. An' if'n they can't find me, next best thing... that's you.”

Tony made a frustrated sound.

“Me they might listen to for five seconds, at least give me a chance to tell what happened. But you? Rhodey! They'll lynch you soon as look at you. Get the fuck outta here!”

Rhodey shook his head.

“Someone gotta look after you, Tony.”

Tony started to push up, ignoring the flaming agony that crawled up his back and lodged in the base of his skull.

“I'm fine. I can... look after myself.”

“Oh, sure. Jus' like ya did in the bayou? I found ya there an' you was soaked in blood, lotta it yer own. Took me 'n' Clint hours to pull all the wood chips out yer skull 'n' back. You was delirious. Fought us off the whole time. 'Specially when we hadda cleanse it all wit' moonshine.”

“Moonshine?!” Tony echoed.

“High alcohol content,” came Clint's voice from one corner. Tony hadn't even noticed him sitting there in the shadows. Creepy bastard.

“Great. Just. Fuckin' fantastic. Barbarians. No wonder I fought you. What a waste... _Merde_.”

He flopped down onto the bed again, huffing out a sigh.

“Oh, yeah. You can look after yourself,” Clint said sarcastically.

“Well, Rhodey doesn't need to be here!” Tony snapped. “You'll do well enough, even if your bedside manner is shit.”

Clint smirked.

“I tried to tell him that, but the stupid bastard won't leave.”

Tony growled.

“ _Casse-toi_ , Rhodey. I don't need you,” he spat.

The other man just blinked passively.

“Ya ain't gettin' ridda me that way. Ya ain't foolin' no man.”

“You're... You're such a...” Tony said, but he was so frustrated he couldn't think of the words to cover it. Besides. His back hurt. And his head hurt. And... well, pretty much everything hurt. Including his heart, because holy shit.

He had had a major part in Steve's brother almost being killed. Or possibly being killed. He didn't even know at this stage.

No, more than a major part. It was his fault more than it was Rhodey's. He'd started it. He'd let Bucky bait him into that fight, pushed and pushed and pushed until the man had picked up that axe.

He turned his head, burying his face in the pillow and sucked in a half-sob of a breath.

Clint and Rhodey exchanged glances.

“Stop it,” Tony muffled into his pillow. “I can hear you feelin' sorry for me, and I don't need it. Get out. Both of you. Out.”

Another glance, and they did leave him to wallow alone.

\- - - - - - -

Eventually, Bruce and Darcy kicked Steve out, ordering him to go home, take a shower and get some rest. It took them a long time to convince him. He was almost clinging to the door frame.

Nevertheless, it was actually something of a relief to get home, to wash up properly, put on some clean shorts and stretch out on his bed and revel in the breeze blowing through his open window. He was exhausted, but sleep didn't come as easily as he'd thought it would.

All he could see was Tony, covered in blood, pushing him away.

And Tony, his eyes heated, pulling him closer.

Steve didn't know what had happened. He didn't understand why Tony had run off. It was only thanks to him that Bucky was even alive.

He wished he could find him and ask. But he'd learned his lesson from trying to find his way through the bayou before. He sat up again, huffing to himself, and reached for his sketchbook.

He opened to the half-finished picture of Tony.

One thumb stroked along the edge of the page and he sighed, miserable and scared and feeling so very alone. He flicked the bedside lamp on and began working on the picture.

When he was younger, he'd imagined being an artist. He was good at it, he knew. He'd compared his own work to that of enough artists. But duty had won out, his father had sent him to London, and now he was back in Heaven, still doing his duty.

Still doing what was right.

Right?

Before he knew it, tears were running down his cheeks. Tony was a good man. He'd been to war. He'd fought for all their rights to do and be what they wanted. But no one would let Tony have the same right.

They called him trash and treated him like the same, even though Steve knew he was the one who really kept the logging business running. Howard didn't know the first thing about the actual day-to-day running of the plantation.

Tony was right. He was _right_.

Howard was pulling the company under with his own bad habits. The numbers told him that. He'd been able to tell from his own ledgers that they should be _making_ money hand over fist, not losing it. And what was he doing now? Just losing more. Paying men who weren't working, because he wasn't horrible enough to cut off their pay.

“Idiot,” he muttered, smacking himself in the face, and resolved to start work again the very next morning.

Which would mean finding Tony. Not the easiest feat if he stayed in the bayou. Oh well. Steve was sure the men could get things going without him to begin with. And no doubt the movement would draw Tony out.

Steve spent a half hour more working on the picture until it was done. Smiling, he signed and dated it, then closed his sketchbook and lay down.

Now sleep came easily.

\- - - - - - -

They stood on the porch, watching the sun rise, two sets of hands curved over the rickety railing. Clint eyed them, noting they weren't even that different in colour, so much time had he spent in the sun.

Great, now he was waxing poetic. He shook his head and glanced at Rhodey.

“Boy,” he drawled. “Tony's right. Y'should haul ass outta here. Ya smacked James Stark upside the head with a chunk o'wood. Soon as they find that out, you're a deadman.”

“I know it,” Rhodey said, hanging his head. “I know. But... Tony, he... he in a bad way at the moment.”

“Ain't your job to watch his ass all the time, Rhodes.”

“Formed a habit,” Rhodey said, mouth twitching. “Overseas.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, _bougre_ ,” Clint waved his hand. “But this. This gonna get you killed. Tony wouldn't want that. He's got enough to blame himself for without that on his conscience as well.”

“An' what 'bout my conscience? Y'think I'll be able t'live wit' myself if he got the blame for somethin' I did.”

Clint sighed, dropping his head between his shoulders, his back flexing in agitation.

“I know. I know, Rhodey, but... None've us wanna see you hangin' from a tree.”

He lifted one hand, bringing it to Rhodey's shoulder.

“Please,” he said. “Please, Rhodey. You gotta go. You gotta.”

Rhodey's mouth pressed into a thin line.

“No. I ain't gonna run from what I done. I done it for a reason. He hadda axe in his hands. He's gonna kill Tony, an' that ain't right, no matter how it's looked at. He gonna tell some lie, an' get Tony killed. At least if I'm here, Tony 'n' me can tell the truth'a what happened.”

Clint sighed.

“Even if you do, they ain't gonna believe you,” he said.

“I know, but it ain't right by God not ta try.”

Another sigh and Clint gave a slight smile. He patted Rhodey's shoulder.

“Okay, boy. Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch   
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	11. Stane

The next morning dawned hot and muggy, the Louisiana sun a harsh mistress as Steve made his way back into town. Darcy had arrived at his door bright and early with an encouraging smile and the news that Dr. Banner felt that Bucky was stable enough to be moved on to the hospital. Despite the good news, a ball of tension sat like a stone in Steve’s gut, a nervousness he just couldn’t get rid of and he cautiously attributed to his brother’s well-being. He’d dressed, leaving his usual jacket behind, because really, he’d been an idiot for the past few months dressing in his full suits. He’d grown up knowing better than to taunt the heat that way.

Barely any shops were open this early, but Steve knew that some of the logging workers would be staggering out of the bar at this time, wondering when the night had given way to blinding light. He turned a corner near the Square and, just as he’d thought, there was Logan, leaning up against the side of O’Brien’s Pub. Steve had never really had the chance to talk to Logan before. Something about the man just exuded ‘NO’ to anyone within a hundred foot radius, but he was as good as any of the other workers for what Steve needed.

“Mr. Logan!” he called out, gaining Logan’s attention with a grunt as the man lit a cigar and eyed Steve blearily.

“Whatever it is,” Logan drawled, puffing a few plumes of smoke towards Steve’s direction. “It’s too damn early t’ deal wit’.”

Steve  patiently waved the cloud of smoke away from his face as he stopped in front of Logan. He placed his hands on his hips and shook his head.

“I know it’s early and I’m sorry, but I have news and I’m not.” He winced and Logan cocked a brow, lips quirking in amusement. “I’m not overly-familiar with every man on my-on _Tony’s_ crew.”

“Damn right it’s Carter’s crew.” Logan turned his head to spit, fingers turning the cigar in an absent motion. “’N see, that’s what’s gonna get y’all in trouble. Even your daddy knew better than to give orders ‘round Carter. He knows them trees like the back of his hand n’ he knows us men even better.”

“Look, Mr. Logan.” Steve placed his hands up in a supplicating gesture. He really didn’t want to get on Logan’s bad side more than he apparently already was. “I’m not trying to do that anymore. I don’t want to go against Tony’s control of the crew. You’re right. He does know it better than me and Bucky. He’s the best man for the job and I’m sorry that it’s taken me this long to make the decision, but I want to reopen Stark Industries’ doors. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

Logan licked his lips and clamped the cigar between his teeth before holding his hand out to Steve. Steve blinked and slowly took it. They shook and Steve could feel a smile start to form.

“’Bout damn time you came to your senses, bub. I got what you’re sayin’. I’ll get the word out n’ we should have them loggers up and runnin’ by noon,” Logan grinned. “They’re gonna be real happy t’ get off them asses.”

“Thank you, Mr. Logan.” Steve smiled fully. “Oh, and, uh… If you could just let Tony know too? I know that after what happened that he’s probably not feeling the greatest either, but I’ve got to get to the hospital and I can’t afford to get lost in the bayou. Tell him also…” Steve hesitated then straightened. “Tell him I said thank you… For Bucky.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got ya.” Logan waved him off, taking a couple steps away as he hitched his pants up a little further. He grimaced for a moment and rolled his eyes. “Sorry t’hear ‘bout your brother. Them logs can be a real bitch sometimes even for us folks that know them real good. I’ll talk to Carter for you, don’t worry.”

“Thank you!” Steve said again as Logan left him to disappear around the pub’s other side. He drew a breath and let it out in a steadying exhale, feeling a bit of the tension in his stomach loosen with one task down. He really did want to go find Tony himself, but Bucky was more important at the moment.

When Steve got to the hospital, the nurse at the front desk directed him to the ICU. It wasn’t lost on him that he was retracing his steps from his father’s stay and he dashed the sudden dread that welled up that Bucky would leave the same way their father did. He couldn’t do that, couldn’t let the fear of losing Bucky to some stupid logging accident cloud the hope that Bucky _would_ wake up and _would_ be himself.

Steve’s mind just flat-out shied away from any thought of what would happen if Bucky wasn’t himself.

“Oh,” he said dumbly as he opened Bucky’s door to find someone already at his brother’s bedside.

“Good morning,” Natasha replied, rising quietly from her chair.

“No, please, stay s-seated,” Steve stammered, caught off guard momentarily. He hadn’t expected anyone to be here, or so soon for that matter. “Have you been here long, Miss Romanoff?”

Natasha’s expression was grim, eyes faintly red as if she’d been crying. Steve absently wished he had a handkerchief to offer her, but saw one clenched tightly in her hands already.

“I’ve been here for about an hour,” she said, tone a little drawn. “When I heard… When they told me what happened, I wanted to come straight away, but Dr. Banner wouldn’t let me see him last night. I came as soon as I could this morning.”

Steve nodded and sunk into the chair on Bucky’s other side. He was quiet for a moment as he took in his brother’s pale features and slow breathing. He swallowed and pressed one hand over his eyes and the other around Bucky’s limp one on the bed. He tried to tune out the monitors and their beeping.

“H-has...” He had to clear his throat. “Has there been any change? Have the doctors said anything?”

“They won’t say much to me.” Natasha’s mouth pursed angrily. “but they did say he’s still stable even with the move. I think Dr. Banner was worried that it might upset him.”

“He’ll wake up soon,” Steve said quietly. “You know he wouldn’t leave his best girl waiting.”

“He better not,” Natasha replied and they both laughed a little, the sounds stilted and weary. They were silent for some time as Steve squeezed Bucky’s hand and silently begged his brother to squeeze back and Natasha brought out a journal to write. Eventually, Steve sat back and, at Natasha’s glance up, rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m going to get some coffee,” he said, hooking his thumb over his shoulder. “Would like a cup or something else?”

“Coffee, please.” Natasha nodded with a slight smile and went back to her journal. “Two sugars.”

Steve pushed to his feet and rolled his shoulders before trudging out of the hospital room. It was a short walk to the small waiting area where a coffee pot gurgled in the empty room. He let the process of making the two cups of coffee distract his thoughts, drifting out of his mind as he stirred in milk and sugar where needed. So it startled him when someone cleared their throat.

“Well, it’s a sad day, isn’t it? Didn’t think I’d see another one of you Stark boys in here so soon.”

Steve’s shoulders sagged from where they’d tensed.

“Good morning, Chief Stane,” he replied, turning halfway to greet the policeman. His smile was polite, if a little brittle at the edges. “We won’t be in here long. Bucky’ll be on his feet again before you know it.”

“That’s good to hear, son,” Stane grinned and Steve was reminded briefly of a shark. “I’d hate to have bury another one so soon.”

Steve winced, but Stane carried on like it didn’t matter and, to him, maybe it didn’t.

“I’m a mite upset he isn’t awake yet actually.” Stane leaned back against the wall by the waiting area door, tipping his hat back to scratch absently at his receding hair line. “You see, I came to get a statement from him about what happened.”

“What do you mean?” Steve frowned, forgetting the coffee for the moment. “There was an accident. Didn’t you speak with Dr. Banner?”

“Oh, I did, son.” Stane nodded and he clucked his tongue. “Thing is, I went down to your daddy’s… I’m sorry, _your_ camp, and you know what I found?”

“Wood?” Steve couldn’t help but ask, the response tight and pitched through gritted teeth. Stane’s grin returned, sharper and matching the glint in his gaze.

“Always had quite the sense of humor, didn’t you? Yeah, I found some wood. Thing is, the story Carter told Banner doesn’t add up. There wasn’t a wrecked stack of logs, no broken chains, not even any signs that some logs had been towed away. But you know what _was_ there?”

Steve felt pressure in his throat, making it hard to breathe as he stared at Stane. That ball of tension from the morning returned in full force and no, he didn’t know what _was_ there and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“W-what?” he asked, the word sticking like dry bread in his throat. He swallowed against it, heat pricking behind his eyes. “What did you find, Chief Stane?”

“A pile of chopped wood with a whole lotta blood on it,” Stane answered, thumbs hitching into his service belt. “And signs of a scuffle. Seems to me, Carter got into it with James and your brother got the short end of the stick, or log, as the case may be. Carter panicked and brought him to town. It would explain why he didn’t stick around to get looked at too.”

“That’s…”  Steve trailed off, heart suddenly pounding in his ears. That couldn’t have been what happened. Tony wouldn’t hurt Bucky, if only because he _was_ Steve’s brother. But if Bucky had gone to pick the fight, then surely Tony would defend himself regardless, but he wouldn’t have aimed to kill him… Would he?

“Carter’s got a nasty background of getting into fights and he and James have never gotten along, it’s no secret.” Stane pushed off the wall and pulled a watch from his pocket. “And it isn’t a secret that where Carter goes that nigger of his is usually with him. While I wait for James to get his ass back to the land of the living, might just have to pull…” Here, Stane trailed off, snapping his fingers as he searched for something. “What’s that nigger of his’ name?”

“Rhodes,” Steve supplied without thinking.

“Yeah,” Stane snorted. “That’s the one. I’m sure I can get the real story out of him. We’ll get to the bottom of this, son, don’t you worry and you can get your charges pressed. Man, it’d be nice to get that tramp Carter off these good streets.”

Steve swayed a little where he stood as Stane two-finger saluted over his shoulder and meandered out of the waiting area. The coffees in his hands were already cold, but he could only stand there and stare at the empty space.

It all made a horrible sense to Steve the more he thought about it. There would have been no reason for Bucky to be at the camp unless he’d gone specifically looking for a fight with Tony.

“Oh god,” Steve said to no one, having to set the cups down before he dropped them. He braced his hands on the counter and stared at the spread of his fingers. He tried to get his thoughts back under control, jumping to conclusions and listening to the police chief who obviously had it out for Carter wasn’t doing him any good. It didn’t matter at the moment how Bucky had ended up like that, but only that he was and that Steve needed to keep faith that his brother would wake up.

He dumped the two cups of coffee and hurriedly prepared just the one for Natasha. Taking it back to Bucky’s room, he held it out to her.

“Here, Miss Romanoff,” he said. “I’m sorry it took so long. I got caught up with Chief Stane. Um, I have to go, but I’ll be back later. Just… please stay as long as you can, in case he wakes up, okay?”

“Is everything okay? Steve?” Natasha asked, reaching for the cup.

“Yes. No… I don’t know,” Steve shook his head, backing up. “I need to talk to… to Mr. Carter about what happened. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

And hopefully he could find his way through the bayou to Tony before Stane did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch   
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	12. Truth

Lost in the bayou again.

This was getting to be a habit and one he didn't like. He really needed to spend some time with Tony – or any of the Cajuns really – learning how to get around here. Especially since ninety percent of the logging crew lived out here.

But really. What sort of an idiot kept trying the same thing and expecting something different to happen? Now he was hot, upset, angry, confused, stressed, frustrated... Ugh.

He sat on a thick tree root, his face in his hands.

He jumped a little when a big hand landed on his shoulder.

“You cryin', boss?” came Rhodey's gentle tones.

“Of course not,” Steve said wearily, though that was mostly because he'd done his crying. He looked up at the other man. “Is Tony okay?”

It wasn't what he'd meant to ask – what happened? What's going on? Who hurt Bucky? It wasn't even how he'd meant to sound – worried and drawn and a little shaky. Rhodey's smile was sad. He made a so-so gesture.

“He's alive.”

Steve's eyes widened a little.

“He's... Is he that bad?”

“Naw, boss. He's had worse.” Rhodey paused as Steve stood. “Shouldn't you be wit' your brother?”

“I...” Steve said. Yes, he probably should. Instead, here he was, lost in the bayou, talking to some... some...

Rhodey's eyes were earnest and soft, and Steve couldn't think anything nasty about him. He didn't seem like a bad guy. Race riots, and the rest of it, the blonde couldn't really blame them. The way people treated them... it was disgusting, and he was enlightened enough to realise that. He clapped Rhodey on the shoulder.

“I wanted to know if he was okay. And... if he doesn't mind, I need... I've got... to talk to him.”

Rhodey looked at him closely, as though summing him up. Eventually, he nodded.

“C'mon,” he said and lead Steve off.

\- - - - - - -

Tony was dozing, the fire in his back somewhat faded from the night's rest and the cool cloths Rhodey kept laying over the bandages. His head pounded, though, and he was half-afraid to go to sleep properly, in case he didn't wake up.

He stirred when he heard Rhodey's tread on the porch. That was good. He really wanted some water, but he couldn't seem to steel himself enough to reach for it, since every movement seemed to make his head worse.

“Rhodey?” he called, eyes slitting open.

For a long moment, he was confused. The pale fabric in his gaze was not the familiar blue denim he was used to. His eyes slid up to Steve's worried face.

Oh, god. He couldn't face Steve. He couldn't. He. Oh god.

“Tony...” Steve said softly, coming to sit in the chair Rhodey had pulled up to tend Tony's injuries. “Oh, Tony.”  
  
Painful as it was, Tony lifted himself a little to turn his face away.  
  
“Go away, Rogers,” he said gruffly. _God, please. Please, please, please go away. Please._

“I can't,” Steve said. “I need... There's some things... I've... I need to ask you.”

“I'm tired,” Tony replied shortly.

Fingers came to his hair, smoothing it back from his ear. It broke his heart. He would have flinched away, if muscle memory didn't instinctively keep him still, not wanting a repeat of earlier sudden movements.

“Rhodey told me you got hurt in the... when the logs collapsed.”

Tony didn't reply, so Steve went on;

“Only... only they didn't, did they?” he asked, not accusatory, which Tony expected, but confused.

He couldn't answer.

“Stane is looking for you. You and Rhodey,” Steve went on, and Tony knew there was no way the man could miss the tensing of his body.

He swallowed.

“Could...” His voice was cracked, wrecked. He was still so tired. “Could you... w-water... please.”

Steve picked up the glass, which had a straw poking out of it. It was an awkward business, and Tony was forced to face him, but they managed it. Then Steve sat silently and waited. He waited quite a while before Tony said;

“How do you know there wasn't an accident?”

He had a fair idea.

“Stane. They went up to the logging site to investigate once Dr. Banner passed on what you'd said. There are no broken chains. No fallen logs. Just chopped wood. Chopped wood and a whole lot of blood.”

Tony closed his eyes. He wished he could make Rhodey leave. But short of physically dragging him away himself, he couldn't think how. And he was too hurt to do that.

He drew in a breath.

“He picked a fight,” he started then thought it probably wasn't the best thing to say to Bucky's brother. “I mean... there was... a fight.”

Steve studied him, a wry grimace curving his mouth.

“Probably the first way of putting it was right. I'm not an idiot. I know he's... hot headed.”

Tony closed his eyes.

“Shoulda known better. I... rose. To his baiting. It... the fight. It got... brutal.”

He eyed Steve, wondering how much of this Steve would take on board. He didn't want to upset the man. Steve seemed to sense this and he gestured.

“Go on. I'll listen,” he said.

Tony sucked in a slow breath.

“Neither of us was fighting fair,” he admitted. “Like I said. Brutal. He got me down on the wood. Hence the stack of chips Rhodey pulled outta me. He was...”

The Cajun trailed off, still leery of saying awful things about Bucky, even if they were true.

“Go on,” Steve said intently.

“He was... bangin’ my head... against the wood.” He gave a vague indication to his bandaged head. “He did it... again... and... again. I don't know how many times. I didn't mean to hurt him so bad. I grabbed a chunk of wood and I brought it up and... and I hit him.”

“To-”

“Shut _up_ , Rhodes!” Tony snarled, pushing himself up a little despite the pain it caused. “That's what happened.”

Steve was staring at him, conflicting emotions flickering across his face.

“He... was...” he said haltingly. “He did that to you?”

Tony nodded.

“Sure 'n' certain, Boss,” Rhodey chimed in. “He woulda killed Tony.”

Steve's jaw set, his hands fisting.

“And you hit him,” Steve said blankly.

“It-” Rhodey started.

“I told you. To shut up,” Tony said darkly.

Rhodey threw his hands in the air and stalked out.

Steve watched him go, then dragged his eyes back to Tony. He didn't know what to think, even less what to say. Conflicting barely covered his emotions right now. That Tony had hit Bucky that hard bothered him intensely. He didn't like it one bit. But according to both Rhodey and Tony, Bucky had a part to play – was quite violent by all accounts.

And Bucky had started the fight. Of course he had. Steve didn't doubt that. Tony wasn't one to back down from a fight, but he knew how to school himself. He wouldn't start something. Steve knew he could have, plenty of times. But he controlled himself at all times. He'd learned how to keep from saying what he thought.

But Bucky could die. And nothing Tony said or did could change that. If he died, Tony woud have murdered him.

“I'm sorry,” Steve found himself saying, mostly through his teeth.

Tony peered at him, frowning from under his bandage.

“What?”

“I'm sorry, Tony. He came and he picked a fight and... whatever else. But... he's my _brother_. I can't just... ignore... that you... you... I _can't_. He could die. He could _die_ , Tony and you did that to him!” He took a breath. “Whatever has been happening between us. This. Thing. This... thing we should never have been doing in the first place... it stops now.”

Tony closed his eyes. He grit his teeth.

“Stevie-”

“No, I mean it. I'm done,” Steve said tightly, and if there was a hitch in his voice, he didn't acknowledge it. He sniffed a little. “I spoke to Logan.”

The sudden change in gears had Tony reeling almost as much as the declaration that Steve was closing the gate between them. Steve's tone was suddenly clipped, professional.

“Wh...?”

“The loggers are starting back at work tomorrow. It's all systems go.”

Tony blinked and his mouth curled in a slight smile.

“ _Oh,_ _mon ami!_ That's great,” he said. “I'll be th-”

“Not until you recover,” Steve said tightly, still all business as he added; “But your job isn't going anywhere, provided...” he trailed off.

Provided he didn't end up in jail for murder.

Tony stared at him. He couldn't believe he'd just told Steve he cracked his brother over the head with a log and Steve was still being... well... at least civil to him. The man was ridiculously fair-minded.

He wondered cynically if it would still be the case if he knew it hadn't been Tony who hit his prick of a brother.

Steve talked a little longer about the plans for restarting the business then he took his leave when Tony’s eyes drooped closed for the third time.

Rhodey took him out of the bayou.

“Thank you,” the blonde said, smiling slightly. Rhodey clapped him on the shoulder.

“Thank _you_ , Boss.” He smiled and seemed about to say something else when a policeman's whistle blew.

They both looked up to see Stane and a bunch of policemen approaching.

Almost fearfully, Rhodey took a step back, but Steve gestured that it was okay and he moved slightly in front of the other man.

“Stane,” he said clearly. “Rhodey doesn't have a thing to do with it.”

The heavyset man lifted a hand to stay the policemen, eyeing Steve. He bared his teeth slightly.

“Get out of the way, Mr. Stark.”

Steve shook his head.

“Rhodey didn't do anything. It was Tony, but it was self-defense and I won't be pressing charges.”

“But-” Stane began.

Again, the blond shook his head.

“No,” he said firmly. “This is my decision, and I'm not pressing charges.”

Stane almost seemed to snarl, glaring at Rhodey.

“I'm sure that nigger had something to do with it,” he growled.

Rhodey fisted his hands slightly, but he didn't move. Steve dragged a hand through his hair, shaking his head.

“That isn't a pleasant term,” he said.

Stane's eyes narrowed. He hadn't figured the Stark boy for a nigger-lover, but it seemed he was wrong. He took a step back lifting his hands.

“My _apologies_ ,” he sneered. Then; “You've spoken to Carter?”

“Yes,” Steve said.

More eye-narrowing. Stane opened his mouth, snapped it closed. Suspicion began to grow in him. Carter was a definite nigger-lover, but he wasn't only that. He was a _queer_. And that wasn't just a suspicion. That was a fact.

Steven Rogers-Stark had never given any indication that he was queer, but there he was, exiting the bayou, refusing to press charges against the man who had belted his brother across the head with a lump of wood, maybe hard enough to kill him.

Of course, he might change his mind if Bucky did die. Or even if he woke up a vegetable. But for the moment, Stane was very aware of Steve's stubbornness, and that if he said he wasn't going to press charges, he wasn't going to press charges.

Stane curled his lip, but took a step back.

“Alright,” he said finally, raising his hands. “On your head be it, kid. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

He turned on his heel, taking his posse – for that was effectively what it was – and leaving.

Behind him, Steve heard Rhodey let out a breath. He glanced over his shoulder to catch the other man grinning at him.

“Thanks, Boss,” he said sincerely. “Thank you.”

Steve shrugged.

“Bucky is the idiot who went up there to pick a fight, and I don't doubt that he did. He's been carrying on about Tony for weeks. But I... I can't... just gloss over it. That's why I...”

He trailed off, shrugging, and Rhodey's eyes were sad.

“He likes you a lot, y'know, Boss,” he said softly.

Steve looked away, gritting his teeth. He shook his head.

“Doesn't matter. I've got a job to do and he... he hit my brother. Put him in a coma. Might... He might have killed him.”

Rhodey peered at him like he wanted to say something, but in the end, he just patted Steve's shoulder.

“I unnerstand, Boss,” he said then he was gone back into the trees.

Steve stared at the place he'd disappeared for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch   
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	13. Pie

Stane was going to kill that arrogant little shit.

He cracked his knuckles as he walked back into the jailhouse, Deputy Hammer right on his heels.

“We should’ve made sure to finish the job twenty years ago,” he muttered, dropping down into his chair and rubbing his face with both hands. He tipped his head back, appraising the ceiling as he cupped his chin. “Twenty plus years that asshole’s been parading around here like he ain’t shit beneath my boots.”

“Carter’s always had a special place in the townsfolk’s hearts,” Hammer replied. Stane didn’t need to see the sneer to hear it in his Deputy’s tone. “All because he and his mama could find fancy weeds out there in the woods. It’s not that hard. I could find the same damn plants.”

“Justin, you’d get bit by the first snake that slithered by,” Stane smirked a little. He turned his head to look at Justin as the man sat down opposite him.

“It’s because of them fancy weeds Carter didn’t die,” Justin scowled. “Them weeds and Dr. Banner. That queer piece of shit should’ve died in those waters and every time I see him walking through town, I want to put a bullet through his head.”

“Now, Deputy.” Stane’s smirk widened, leaning forward to fold his arms on his desk. “We’re upstanding policemen. We serve this town. We can’t have talk like that.”

Justin blinked then narrowed his eyes.

“You were just sayi-“

“I’ve done some thinking, Justin,” Stane practically purred, scratching at the gray beard lining his jaw. “Carter’s hurt, probably as near as bad as James.”

“Yeah?” Justin frowned, trying to puzzle out where the chief was going with this. He glanced around the jailhouse, but most of the other officers were on patrol.

“He probably wouldn’t be but a pillow-press away from passing away in his sleep from… Oh, I don’t know...” Stane’s gaze glittered. “Blood loss?”

Justin’s confusion cleared, but the frown remained. He tilted his head, tapping a finger against Stane’s desk in thought.

“But what about that nigger of his? You know that boy won’t be leaving Carter’s side any time soon.”

“Oh, but that’s the beauty of it, Justin,” Stane grinned, tapping a finger to his temple. “You see, that boy’s going to try and stop us. You know it. I know it and, more importantly, _he_ knows it. Assaulting an officer is a serious offense and when that nigger tries to get in between us, well… We’re only doing our job.”

Justin’s mouth twitched and then spread into a grin fit to split his cheeks.

“Two birds, one stone!”

“Exactly, my dear Deputy.” Stane leaned back again, folding his arms behind his head. “It’ll be a piece of cake and I’ll never have to deal with Carter again. He’ll be in Hell wishing he’d died when I put my fist through his face all those years ago.”

“You should’ve just gutted him,” Justin muttered. “No one would’ve known and we had him good and pinned.”

“Hindsight,” Stane growled. “I didn’t think he’d be lucky enough for his bitch mama to find him.”

Justin nodded at that, picking at a splinter at the edge of the desk. He was trying to tame his grin, but the excitement of the potential hunt was keeping it fair in place.

“So when do you want to head back out there, Chief?”

“Tomorrow,” Stane decided after a moment’s thought. “Town’s abuzz already with the rumor Stark’s reopening the logging doors. He’ll be occupied with that at the office, so we won’t run the risk of his interference. Though, there’s another thought.”

“Eh?” Justin swept his hat off, running a hand through his hair. “What thought?”

“Steven Rogers-Stark,” Stane murmured. “Queering it up with Carter, who would’ve thought? An upstanding gentleman like him? The town would just as soon stone him than let him meander through their ‘polite’ circles. They’d lynch him with the nigger.”

“Chief, I don’t… I don’t think we should be messing with the Starks,” Justin said slowly, wary of his boss’ temper.

“Oh, we wouldn’t have to do a thing,” Stane watched Justin, relaxed. “Just be in the wrong place at the right time. The town would take care of it for us. And then, just suppose James Barnes-Stark dies from his injuries. Who’d be left to run Stark Industries?”

“Uh…”

“Exactly. But everyone knows how far me and their daddy went back. Thick as thieves.” Stane laughed, a soft, ugly sound that curdled in his throat. “Best friends. I can afford to take a controlling interest in the company and the townsfolk trust me implicitly. It’d be so easy to go in and take things over. The money alone would be worth the hassle of taking them all out.”

Justin fingered the rim of his hat.

“Of course, Chief,” he decided, grin curling back into place. “Whatever you want, you know I’m on board.”

“Ah, yes, but… Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Stane shifted, adjusting his work belt and the gun attached at his hip. “We’ll take care of Carter and his nigger tomorrow and we’ll go from there. Easy as pie.”

“Oh! Speaking of pie,” Justin perked up. “Miss Lorraine is in the sweet shop today since Miss Natasha’s been at James’ bedside. Miss Lorraine makes the best apple pie.”

Stane rubbed a hand over his face with a muted groan.

“Go on then,” he waved his other hand. “And get on patrol afterwards.”

“Yes, Chief,” Justin jumped up and fairly ran out the door.

~~

Steve had been silent since they sat down at the diner. His napkin was twisted and shredded in his fingers. He couldn’t help but be very aware of the sticky plastic of the booth seat beneath him, made as such by the evening’s humid heat.

“Steve?” Lorraine asked, hands folded primly on the edge of the table. Steve looked across at her, watched as she leaned forward slightly. Her décolletage was framed beautifully with a soft green bodice, but Steve lamented that he couldn’t fully appreciate the sight. He could admit her beauty. She was soft-spoken,  her doe-eyes a shade of blue that was fair and light.

He sighed to himself. If only. If only Tony’s amber eyes and olive skin weren’t sliding into his vision, overlaying Miss Lorraine’s own features.

“I’m sorry, Lorraine,” he said, genuine and sounding just a bit defeated. Her brow creased briefly before she reached out to settle a hand against Steve’s own. He stopped torturing his napkin, waiting for the expected heat from her touch, but it didn’t come. Her fingers were cool against his own.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Steve,” she said. “I know it’s been a couple of stressful days because of your brother’s situation, but I have faith that the Lord will see him pull through. James is tough and Natasha’s as stubborn as a mule. She’ll will him back to health and then drag him around for making her worry.”

Steve tried to smile, felt his mouth twitch and Lorraine drew her hand away. He watched her reach for her glass of tea and realized he felt better not being in contact. He rubbed his face, hiding his slight scowl. Damn Tony. Damn Tony and damn himself for being the way he was, for letting himself let Tony under his skin.

“I know,” he sighed, smoothing out the remnants of his napkin. “You’re right. It’s just... It’s just a lot to take in, you know? But I’m determined to get the Industries’ doors reopened for business tomorrow and I know I’m going to be busy with that and busy worrying about Buck. That’s… That’s why I wanted to bring you out tonight, Lorraine.”

Lorraine smiled, a flash of white framed by a deep red lipstick, and Steve felt an ache in his chest. He thought that maybe, once upon a time, it really could’ve worked between them.

“I’m glad you did, Steve,” she replied, voice as soft as her expression. “I’ve been wanting to spend time with you. Someone has to make sure you’re taking care of yourself through these hard times. I’d almost feared I’d been forgotten.”

Lorraine’s tone had been teasing, but Steve winced, looking down at his napkin again.

“Steve? What’s wrong?”

Steve swallowed and squared his shoulders. It was time to buck up and be an adult about the situation. His mouth worked for a moment, but the words didn’t want to come. He was never very good with women when he was trying to flatter them and it seemed that he wasn’t any better when he was trying to let them down gently.

“I think I need to take a step back, Lorraine,” he finally declared, shoulders slumping just a bit.

“I don’t understand,” Lorraine frowned, setting her glass down but leaving a hand wrapped around it. Steve watched a bit of condensation slide down and pool against her finger. He forced his gaze back up to hers.

“With everything that’s going on and that _will_ be going on, I won’t have the time or the concentration to treat a pretty dame like yourself how she should be treated,” Steve said, watching her frown deepen. “But I don’t want to waste your time, either. I want you to be free to see any of your other beaus that would drop everything for you on the dime. I just… I can’t be that fella right now, Lorraine. I hope… I hope you can understand and that we can still be good friends.”

“You… You’re breaking up with me?” Lorraine’s voice was distant, eyes shifting to the side. Steve was sure this was quite the shock for her. No one, _no one_ , ever told her no. It wasn’t how things were done. She and her sister were praised for their beauty and their good natures. How could someone like, like _Li’l Stevie Rogers_ of all people turn _her_ down? “Is it because of James’ situation? Steve, you shouldn’t feel like you have to give up your life just to take care of him. That’s what I’m here for, w-what Natasha’s here for. We’re here to help you, to help ease the burden.”

“I’m sorry, Lorraine.” Steve shook his head and he had known it wasn’t going to be easy. His gut was turning and he felt sick, but it was only because he hated letting people down and he felt like he was letting her down. “It’s the decision I’ve made. I have to focus on getting the business back up and running, operating smoothly and proficiently. Dividing that with Bucky’s care when he does wake up, I just won’t have time to do much else. Like I said, I don’t want a pretty dame like yourself waiting around for me. There are plenty of men who would be over the moon for you. Like, like Justin Hammer. I’m pretty sure he’s sweet on you.”

Lorraine leaned back, mouth twisting. Her father was going to tan her hide if she didn’t find a way to salvage this, but Steve’s expression was firming, decided. She couldn’t think fast enough to find a way out of this mess. God damn him.

“Ah, Justin,” she tried to make her voice even, light, understanding. “Yes, I suppose he is. He is a sweet man, always buys my apple pie.”

“See? He’d… He’d treat you right, Lorraine, and that’s what you need,” Steve smiled, the curve too strained to be relaxed. Lorraine squared her own shoulders and let out a soft breath. After all, she could keep herself civil until she was alone. No need to scare Steve off for good. Besides, once everything stabilized with the company, he’d realize how foolish he’d been and she’d be there to graciously accept him back.

“Of course,” she replied with a smile of her own that was as genuine as she could make it. “Ah, but about your company. Wasn’t Mr. Carter injured in the same accident? How do you propose to get the loggers going without their foreman?”

Steve’s breath had stopped in his throat at the mention of Tony. His hand clenched once more around his napkin and he looked away, fighting back the flush that he knew was battling to tint his cheeks.

_Interesting,_ Lorraine’s eyes narrowed.

“We’ll be just fine while T-, while Mr. Carter recuperates,” Steve said tightly, trying his damnedest not to think of the soft brush of Tony’s hair beneath his fingers. The worried tilt of the man’s mouth as he obviously struggled with telling Steve the truth of what happened with Bucky and the lingering pain he was still in from his own injuries. Distantly, a thought of Rhodes trying to intervene in the conversation made Steve pause. What had the man been trying to say?

“It’s just as well, I’m sure,” Lorraine was saying. “Everyone needs a break now and then. I’m sure Mr. Carter will be as right as rain soon, just like James. Everyone knows that hardly anything can keep Mr. Carter down, what with him managing to come home from the war even with a dreadful injury. Papa used to say that even when he’d been beaten down, Mr. Carter always got right back up. Such a resilient man, just wish he’d exercise better manners.”

“Better manners?” Steve couldn’t stop the fond smile then and Lorraine’s gaze tracked it, suspicion growing in her mind. “Yes, he does seem a little uncouth sometimes, doesn’t he? But the crew trusts him far better than they’ll ever trust me. He knows what he’s doing and how to get the job done right. If he didn’t, my father wouldn’t have kept him around all these years. I hope he’ll recover swiftly because I know it’s killing him that he won’t be able to make it on the first day reopened.”

“Mm,” Lorraine hummed and something set off in Steve’s head. A warning. Instinctive danger. “He does seem the type to be very good with his hands and that’s definitely what a logging crew needs, isn’t it?”

“Um, yes… I would say so,” Steve cleared his throat. “He’s got good hands. For the job, I mean.”

“For the job,” Lorraine murmured and tilted her head. She smiled. “Well, I’ll let you get away with your time, Steve, but I fully expect another date when everything’s calmed down. Just to keep in touch with how you’re doing, of course. For now, let’s finish our meal when it comes and then you can walk me home.”

Steve blinked and hesitantly returned her smile.

“I’d like that,” he replied, and if he was distracted the rest of the meal by thoughts of just how _good_ Tony’s hands were, then no one needed to know but himself. Even as he desperately tried to think of other things and keep a polite conversation with Lorraine.

The walk home was balmy and pleasant enough. Lorraine’s hand was settled in the crook of his elbow and Steve kept his stride slow so she didn’t have to stretch to match it. The town always seemed more lively as the evening crept in, lights and music floating through the streets and Steve wondered what it would be like to be able to stroll down such a street with Tony at his side, no worries, no cares as to what people would think. He scoffed at himself for such a fancy thought. That would be the day.

When they reached the Romanoff home, Steve delivered Lorraine to the front door, standing just a step below her. He took her hand from his elbow and held it gently for a moment.

“Thank you, Lorraine,” he said, looking at her with a soft smile. “I appreciate that you understand where I’m coming from with this and, and I really hope that we can still be friends.”

“Steve, of course we’ll still be friends,” Lorraine replied, hiding the bitter of edge of her own smile with a ducked head. “But I just have one favor to ask.”

“Anything,” Steve said instantly.

“Oh, but this will seem so forward and silly,” Lorraine hedged, demure and sly.

“It’s just one favor, it can’t be as bad as all that,” Steve insisted.

“Before we… Before we leave things lie, may I have just one kiss?” Lorraine looked up at him, blue eyes wide and seemingly just a little damp. “Just one kiss from my fella for the road?”

Steve’s heart was in his throat. His fingers twitched around Lorraine’s.

“I…” he swallowed and licked his lips. “Ah, are you sure that’s proper? I mean, it doesn’t seem…”

“Oh, I know it was silly,” Lorraine began to pull away. “I’m sorry I as-“

“No!” Steve surprised himself with the admonishment. “It’s not… silly, Lorraine. I, yes… I can… Just one…”

Lorraine blinked, a spark of something hidden in her gaze. Steve hesitated for a moment. His hand was shaking slightly as it hesitantly touched her chin. She tipped her chin up for him and then sighed softly as he brushed their mouths together. It was pleasant, but he knew Tony could do better.

He felt her tip up on her toes before she gripped Steve’s bicep and deepened the kiss. She made a pleased noise like it was so much better.

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t Tony. The thought was a mantra through Steve’s mind and even though her lips were soft and he should’ve been thrilled at the slight hint of the sweep of her tongue, but he could only think that it _wasn’t_ Tony.

Steve’s hand fell from her face and both held her shoulders. For a moment, Lorraine thought he might sweep her off her feet, but he only gently pushed her back.

“L-Lorraine, that’s…” He was flushed. He could feel the heat in his face and he was uncomfortable with the glint in her eyes. The kiss had been… nice, but that’d been it. It hadn’t sparked more than a slight glow in his stomach and he cursed himself a fool.

“One kiss for the lady.” He tried to sound lighthearted, but even to him it sounded a bit flat. “Do take care, Lorraine… I, um, I’ll say good night now.”

“Good night, Steve, and thank you,” Lorraine replied, touching two fingers to her mouth as she turned and went inside.

Steve swallowed back regret and shoved his hands in his pockets as he trudged back onto the street proper.

How was he supposed to give up Tony when all he could do was think about the godforsaken Cajun with everything he did? How, when all he wanted was to return to the damn bayou and learn how very good he and Tony could be together regardless of the man’s injuries. He wanted the heat of Tony’s touch, the press of his mouth, the knowing look in his eyes.

“Damn,” he ground out. He just had to stop thinking about it… He had to try. He couldn’t let himself be distracted anymore. It couldn’t be worth the risk of everything his father had built. He had to be strong for the company and for his brother. He raked a hand through his hair and felt so very tired as he made his way downtown to the hospital. He’d stay there that at Bucky’s bedside. That would keep his traitorous thoughts at bay and tomorrow… Well, tomorrow would be a new day and a new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch   
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	14. Captivated

Steve lay on his back in only his underwear, hands folded over his stomach and eyes closed. It had been a punishing day, hotter than hell, and so busy, he'd barely had time to catch his breath, let alone take a drink or rest. The plantation was back in full swing, Logan's rough, abrasive barking keeping Cajun, Negro and Anglo Saxon alike at the hop. Even Steve almost felt like he was taking commands from the man.

And once work had ceased, he'd gone down to the hospital, the air thick and heavy with sickness and sorrow.

Bucky still wasn't stirring, though his injuries had begun to heal.

The heat hadn't relented until the sun set, and now, finally, a breeze had sprung up, wafting through his open windows and kissing his sweat-slick skin. The oppressive weight of the temperature only now felt like it was lifting off him.

The oppressive weight of his thoughts, however, would not leave him.

He felt disgusted with himself, that he was still thinking of Tony when the man could well be responsible for the loss of his brother.

At first, he didn't register the weird tapping at his window. At least not consciously. Then when it became more insistent, he sat up, peering across at the fluttering curtains.

A small pebble whisked between then, pattering on the floor. There were two or three more there where apparently whomever had thrown them had missed a few times. There was another clatter and another.

Feeling somewhat ridiculous, he stuck his head out.

It was Rhodey, grinning up at him from the darkness.

“What the... We have a door bell, you know!”

“Di'n't wanna raise suspicion, Boss. You live in a nice neighbourhood, right?”

He winked. At least Steve thought he winked, but it was hard to tell, since he was somewhat lost in the shadows. Steve rolled his eyes, looking out across the expanse of the plantation. He supposed Rhodey thought he was being ironic. Or something.

“What do you want?”

“Nuffin',” the other man said innocently, smirking from ear to ear.

More eye rolling. He drew back inside and hurried downstairs to let Rhodey in.

The grinning man sauntered in, hands in overall pockets. His skin gleamed. He wasn't wearing a shirt under the denim straps. Honestly, Steve didn't blame him.

Rhodey looked around, whistling through his teeth.

“Not bad, Boss, not bad.”

“Right. Thanks,” Steve said, then stood there sort of awkwardly, Rhodey grinning his idiot head off. He seemed to find this whole situation a great joke, and only grinned harder when Steve tried arching a brow at him.

“I hadda throw the rocks. He told me t'do it.”

“He...” Steve trailed off, rubbing his forehead. “Tony?”

“Eeyup. He wanted me t'sing, but I said I wasn't gonna serenade no one but my own best girl. When I find one, I mean.”

“Sing?” Steve said weakly.

Rhodey grew serious.

“He's gettin' better, but real slow. He wants ta see ya.”

“No,” Steve said immediately, turning away.

“But-”

“ _No_. I can't... do that. He could've killed my-”

“But he _didn't_ , Boss. An' Bucky woulda killed _him_ if...”

He trailed off, gesturing wordlessly.

Steve dragged his hand through his hair.

“He still hasn't woken up.”

“Yeah. I heared,” Rhodey watched him carefully.

“I can't... I can't go see him.”

“But he didn't d-” Rhodey coughed a little. “Didn't mean it.”

“I... I know... I know...”

Rhodey took a step forward and slid his hand over Steve's shoulder. The blonde was suddenly and acutely aware of the fact that it hadn't even occurred to him to put a shirt on. His eyes were intent as he looked at Steve.

“An' _I_ know... you wanna see him.”

Steve's eyes dropped away from Rhodey's, flickered back up, agonised. Rhodey's own gaze was soft.

“Know what it's like t'be different, Boss. Ain't so bad. When Tony's ‘round.”

Steve's mouth opened, closed, opened again. He felt tears burning at the back of his throat, then to his utter horror, felt them sliding down his cheeks as well. It was all just too much. He'd come back to resurrect his father's company, come back with the confidence that he could do it. And he had. With Tony's help. But now what? Now his brother lay in a coma, he was panting after another man, and he was goddamned _crying_ in front of a... a... ni...

He _hated_ that word.

Before he knew what was going on, Rhodey had pulled him into a muscled hug, one hand palming gently, reassuringly across his hair.

“'S'okay, Boss. It'll be okay,” he crooned, like he really believed his own words. “Ain't so bad.”

Steve laughed bitterly, wetly, but he didn't pull away. His hands had fisted in the denim overalls. But of course it was so bad. Forget the logging company. Forget his name. His _life_ would literally be over if anyone found out.

“Ain't it?” he said, affecting Rhodey's phrasing without meaning to. “It is, Rhodey, it _is_. I can't... be... I can't be... fucking... q... q...”

“Captivated?” Rhodey offered.

Steve drew back, blinking up at him.

“What...?”

“Captivated. Attracted. Innerested. Whatever you wanna call it. In love?” He bounced his brows, grinning.

“ _No_.”

A shrug from the other man.

“Mebbe, Boss. Anyway. No one ever say it's bad to be _captivated_.”

“With the opposite gender!” Steve cried.

Rhodey peered at him.

“Whites try t'tell us we wrong, Boss. We less. Jus' 'cause our skin's darker. I don't think bein' more or less got anythin' t'do with skin. D'you? Really?”

Steve stared, wide-eyed for a long moment, then slowly shook his head.

“No,” he whispered, like it was a sudden realisation. In fact it was, in all honesty. “No, I don't.”

“I met good an' bad whites. I met good an' bad blacks. I met good an' bad Cajun. It ain't about skin, it's about what's inside. Same with who you choose to... be captivated by.”

“I _didn't_ choose it.”

“Right,” Rhodey said with a smile. “Right, e'sac'ly. An' I didn't choose t'be black. But people gonna persecute me for it 'cause it's different. People gonna persecute you 'n' Tony... because you're different. But that don't mean you wrong. Don't mean you _less_.”

Steve peered at him, wiping tears away with the back of his wrist.

“That... that's...”

“Deep?” Rhodey offered, grinning. “More'n just a pretty face, Misser Stark.”

“Rogers.”

“Mr. Rogers.”

“Steve. You can... You call me Steve.”

“Well. That's mighty fine've you, Boss!” Rhodey clapped him on the shoulder. “Now. You'll come visit Tony, yeah? His whinin' is drivin' me 'n' Clint crazy.”

“I...”

“He's sick, Boss. Sick at heart.”

Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. He hoped Rhodey didn't notice its trembling, but he doubted much actually got past the man.

“So am I,” he admitted. “Alright.”

\- - - - - - -

The policeman had been waiting, watching, bored to death because nothing was happening.

_Tail the Stark Brat,_ Stane had said. _There's something funny going on. Stay with him. I want to see what he does._

It seemed nothing. He was doing nothing except sleeping and moping around his house, unless he was at the hospital sitting vigil over his brother...

That was until that Rhodes character turned up and started tossing rocks at the Stark's window. He'd perked up, then, watching with interest.

Sure enough, Stane's suspicions seemed at least somewhat confirmed when, eventually, Steven Rogers-Stark followed Rhodes out of the house, dressed in slacks and a singlet top, instead of his usual kit. The man's lip curled.

He slunk off after them.

\- - - - - - -

Steve followed Rhodey through the bayou. He was starting to register familiar bits and pieces. A tree here, a fallen log there. He felt more relaxed the moment they stepped into the trees. Maybe Tony was right. Maybe it was getting in his bones.

When they arrived at the cluster of Cajun houses, the people there were all out on their porches in the breeze, a huge pot set over a small fire bubbling away with a spicy, pleasing scent. They chatted and laughed, some sang to plucked banjos.

But only one sight drew Steve's eyes.

Tony was up, after a fashion. He was sitting in a chair on his porch, looking much healthier than the last time Steve had seen him. His fingers were curled around a tin mug which rested on the arm of the chair, and one of his feet was propped on the porch rail.

Steve hadn't felt as good as he did just then for as long as he could remember, it seemed.

He was barely aware of the subtle press of Rhodey's thumb and fingertips in the small of his back urging him to walk forwards. He thought he did so of his own accord.

He crossed the flicker of firelight and took the steps up onto Tony's porch. Tony smirked up at him, a knowing twist to his mouth.

Steve couldn't keep the grin off his own. He bent, folding his long frame almost in half, and cupped Tony's jaw, tipping his head back to kiss him.

Ah. There it was. _Fire_.

“Li'l Stevie,” Tony drawled, bringing his own hand up to Steve's hair. “Oh, _cher_ , you look _good_. _Bien_.”

Steve laughed softly.

“So do you,” he murmured.

\- - - - - - -

The policeman skidded into Stane's office, boots still muddied with the bayou.

“You were right. Sheriff. You were _right_.”

Stane looked up from some paperwork. His grin was positively predatory.

“About Stark?”

The policeman nodded furiously.

“All of it. He's. You're right about all of it. He's a nigger-lover _and_ he's a damned... he's... he's _queer_.” The man's lip curled in disgust. “Just like that trash, Carter. I saw them. I. _Disgusting_!”

Stane stood up.

“Let's go b-”

The door banged open again. Now Hammer was skidding in, holding his hat on with one hand. He panted. Coughed.

Stane made a long-suffering expression while he waited.

“James. James, he... he's woken up!” Hammer finally panted.

Stane's eyes lit. He grabbed for his hat.

“Let's go talk to him, shall we, while his baby brother is...” A sneer. “Otherwise engaged.”

\- - - - - - -

It was nice. Better than nice. Sitting beside Tony on his porch, their fingers laced together while the Cajuns danced and talked and laughed. Tony's thumb rubbed gently back and forth against the top of his own every so often, sending little drifts of warmth through his frame.

Rhodey was dancing with Clint, the pair of them making complete fools of themselves to the delight of the rest of the impromptu gathering.

Steve knew it couldn't last, but for the time being, he felt like he was right where he needed to be.

Tony talked quietly beside him, recounting his injuries and how he was doing. It seemed his back was healing quickly now that Rhodey and Clint had pulled the last wood chip free. None of the wounds had been particularly deep. His head was taking longer – he still had a bandage around it – but it wasn't quite as bad as Bucky's.

“Tony...” Steve cut across when the man paused for breath. The Cajun glanced at him, brown eyes soft.

“Mm?”

“You know... you know I said I... couldn't forget... couldn't ignore what happened with Bucky...?”

“ _Oui, cher_. That was only a few days ago. And you said this... _thing_ had to stop.” A smirk and a lift of those expressive brows. “Yet. Here you are.”

Steve nodded.

“I can't ignore _you_ , either. And he... he _came_ up there, looking for a fight.”

“ _Oui_ , but he's still your brother,” Tony sighed.

“Yes,” Steve agreed. “But that doesn't excuse it.” He was silent for a long moment, then; “When I was in London... the... race riots... I read the papers and... I don't think I realised it then, but... I think I already started to wonder... you know... if it was right. The way... we treat Negros. And I believe my thoughts on the matter already began to change, but until I came back...I didn't really notice... and it's so rife here. The white population, even Buck... so... so...”

“Entitled?” Tony offered.

“ _Yes_. God. So fucking entitled. And Rhodey... He's one of the nicest men I've met.”

Tony was silent for a long, long moment.

“Saved my life...” he said. “...More than once.”

“He... said some things... to me at the house. That made a lot of sense.”

Tony chuckled, mostly an exhale through his nose.

“That's rare. Him makin' sense,” he teased.

Steve grinned despite himself.

“Not as rare as you makin' sense,” he teased right back.

Tony flashed a grin at him, leaned across and put his mouth to Steve's ear, voice low, thick with heat.

“When I get better, I _promise_ to show you how much sense I can make, _cher_. But you... _you'll_ be _senseless_ when I'm done...”

Steve shifted, feeling heat creep up his neck.

“Tony...” he said tightly.

Teeth against his ear, a bold hand sliding fingertips up the inseam of his slacks.

“ _Dieu_ ,” the Cajun growled. “The things I want to do to you, Li'l Stevie.”

“T-Tell me,” Steve said, pretending the hitch hadn't happened.

“I-”

“ _Everyone on the ground_!”

Steve and Tony jerked apart, though Tony's grip tightened on Steve's hand. Policeman were swarming the clearing, knocking over the pot, grabbing at squealing children who weren't quick enough to do what they asked.

No. Demanded.

Steve's eyes narrowed as he watched boots pushed between shoulder blades, hands fisted in hair, guns waved in faces. Not one of the Cajuns fought the policeman, but the men went all out anyway.

“Where is the nigger?”

“Stane...” Steve hissed, standing up. Again, Tony's hand tightened, but Steve pulled his own free. “I can't just sit and watch this.”

“Stevie, it's-”

Steve made a cutting motion with his hand and stalked down the stairs, grabbing the collar of the first policeman he came to, who had his gun shoved between the shoulder blades of a barely-teenaged boy.

“Leave off, man. Or I'll have your badge,” he growled.

The man hesitated, then withdrew, raising his hands. Whatever else Steve was, he was still a Stark. Steve bent to help the kid up. When he straightened, Stane was there.

“ _Where_ is the _nigger_?” he snarled, grabbing one strap of Steve's singlet, seemingly not at all afraid of Steve or his standing in the town.

“I don't know,” Steve said, and it wasn't even a lie. He'd no idea where Rhodey had fled to when the raid first began.

Stane's eyes narrowed.

“You might wanna re-think that, _queer_ ,” he said lowly. “He's the one who hit your brother.”

Steve reeled more from the venom in the word than the revelation that Rhodey had been the one to do it. He blinked, eyes going wide.

“Wh-what?” he said breathlessly.

“That's right. Cowardly cur that he is. He picked up that log and he fair caved in the back of James' head with it!”

It made a horrible sense.

Steve thought he was going to be sick.

“Unhand me, Stane,” he growled.

“Or what? You got no rights left, Rogers. Your daddy ain't gonna save you this time.”

“I don't need-” Steve started.

Stane spat in his eye.

Steve heard a string of French curses from the porch, and knew without having to look that Tony would be fighting his way to his feet. He put up a hand.

“Tony,” he said quietly, then brought the hand to wipe his eye. “Unhand. Me,” he said, low, tight, warning. “Or I _will_ have your badge.”

Stane curled his lip.

“You?” he said in disgust. “You ain't gonna have anything, Stark. You ain't even gonna have your reputation when I'm done.”

Steve showed his teeth.

“I don't give a _fuck_ what you think,” he said and pushed Stane back. “Get out of here.”

“Not until I get what I came for.”

“Do you _see_ him, Obadiah? Do you?”

Steve flung a hand out to indicate the whole clearing, the Cajuns, scared and silent, wide-eyed. Clint looking on the edge of knifing someone. Tony grinding his teeth around his cigarette.

Stane's eyes narrowed again and he got right up in Steve's space, but the blonde didn't back down.

“I'm going to show you for the queer little fuck you are, Stark. I'm going to take you apart, and no one will work for you anymore. Not even this trash. Once I'm done with Rhodes. Once he's _hanged_. You're next.”

The words were low, rough, vindictive, and Steve didn't doubt them in the least. But he didn't let it show.

“Get out of here, Stane. Take your fucking posse and get _out_ of here. Rhodes is long gone.”

“You were always one of them, Stark. Just a stray _dog_ Howard took in and dressed up fancy. But you'll always be a mongrel.”

Steve wanted to punch him, but he definitely didn't want to give the man an excuse to haul him in. So he just glared.

Eventually, Stane let out a disgusted 'tch' and turned on his heel. He whistled, and the policeman began to draw away from the men and women they'd beaten down.

When they were gone, no one stirred for a long moment.

It was Steve who did so first. He brought the back of a hand to his mouth.

“Oh, god,” he said and bent double, dry-heaving.

“Stevie,” someone said. It wasn't Tony. It was a woman, her hand cool on the back of his neck, her accent soothing. “Shh, it's alright.”

“Possum,” Tony's more familiar accent cut in. “Let him be.”

Her hand fell away. Tony's replaced it.

“Come, _cher_ ,” he said softly. “Come inside.”

Steve looked up.

“Is it true? Is... Did Rhodey...?”

“ _Oui_ ,” Tony said simply. “He saved my life again.”

Steve straightened. His hands came to Tony's shoulders.

“It wasn't... you didn't do it. You. You didn't do it.”

Tony shook his head a little.

“ _Non_.”

“Oh... oh...”

Tony watched him silently. He opened his mouth, about to speak, but found it suddenly occupied by another tongue, Steve's arms closing painful hard around his shoulders. He didn't protest. How could he? He slid his fingers instead into Steve's hair, making low, soothing sounds from the back of his throat.

Someone catcalled.

Steve broke away, blushing and Tony couldn't help laughing at him.

Steve smiled a little shyly, but it was quick to fall away.

“But... Rhodey... they'll... And Stane and... and... how did he know that...” He trailed off. “Oh, god. Bucky must be awake!”

“One thing at a time, _cher_. We'll worry about Rhodey and Stane later. You should go to your brother. Before Stane does. You. You should tell him.”

“Wh... I can't... I...”

“If you don't, Stane will,” Tony said gently. “He's a viper, that one.”

Steve swallowed. He looked away, hands fisting at his sides. He knew Tony was right, but the very idea terrified him. Bucky had made no secret of his dislike of Tony and Steve knew now it had everything to do with his preferences. He didn't like to think of how the man would take the news of his own.

“I'm scared,” Steve admitted.

“Of course you are, Li'l Stevie,” Tony said, stroking the side of his face. “But you gotta be honest. An' everythin' else will come as it comes.”

Steve searched his face. He gave a short nod.

“You should be resting,” he said finally.

“Tuck me in and I will,” Tony purred.

Steve laughed.

“Alright. But literally. I can't stay long.”

Tony smiled, eyes lidded, and led him inside. He behaved himself, mostly, and soon Steve was back on the edge of the bayou, a young boy darting back into the trees, barefoot and unafraid.

He thought next time he could almost find his way back alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch   
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	15. Flight

The pain was almost unbearable. It spread like fire from the gaping wound in his side. He stumbled, fingers catching uselessly at a tree as he passed. His hand slipped and he gasped wetly, the sound lost in the pants of his breath, the cacophony of the terror at his heels.

“Run!” was snarled at him and his wrist was caught in a tight grip despite the dampness of his skin. He was pulled along, barely able to focus on the blurry person in front of him, let alone see through the smoke billowing through the bayou.

“C-Clint,” he stuttered, teeth clenching hard around his shivers. “I can’t! I need a-“

“You need to keep runnin’, Stark!” Barton hissed over his shoulder. “You wanna let them dogs catch us?!”

“No!” Steve choked out, fear lancing up his spine and aggravating the vicious bite wound he’d already received. “No, Clint! Please!”

“Keep. Runnin’!” and that shout was loud enough to reach over the screams, the furious howling of the bloodhounds on Steve’s scent. Blood that was all too warm where it poured down his tattered side, pooling beneath the waistband of what he’d considered once to be a good pair of slacks. It was ruined now, like so many other things. His whole life brought down around his ears by hate and bigotry. All he knew now was pain and fear and he had to get to Tony.

He had to run.

“C’mon,” he urged himself desperately, choking on the waves of pain that closed his throat and sent his vision spinning. Vines threatened to restrain him, roots to trip him up in unfamiliar paths. No matter how good Clint was at navigating the bayou, Steve just didn’t know it like him. He’d hoped that one day he would, but that hope was dust in the wind, sunk low beneath the fetid waters around them. He was a hindrance. If he didn’t pull through, he’d get Clint caught too. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t take anything more away from Tony.

Tony’s home lie in flames far behind them, the entire camp lit ablaze by the very society Steve had grown up trying to be the very best of. Bile rose in his throat again, but he couldn’t stop long enough to let it pass. Stane being there hadn’t been a surprise. The mob that had built behind him and the dogs barely restrained on their leashes had been.

“Why?!” he had shouted at Clint when the ex-soldier had first dragged him to his feet. “Why are we like this?!”

The dog that had brought Steve down was lying on the ground with the broken end of a jug in its head. Its teeth still gleamed in the firelight with cloth and blood dripping into the dirt. It was a sight Steve would never forget it, a pain he didn’t think he’d ever stop feeling. Clint had only bared his own teeth and hauled Steve up.

Then they ran.

And Steve couldn’t afford to think of the families in the camp that they were leaving behind. The screams of outrage and fear that were slowly growing dimmer as the distance between them expanded, but the dogs… The dogs were still hot on their heels, close enough that Steve could swear he felt their snorting breaths, moist and hot, against his neck.

He staggered, vision going blind momentarily, and hit his knees. His arm was wrenched as Clint tried to keep going before his grip slipped free. He choked, retching up the weak coffee he’d had at the hospital and a metallic taste he feared was blood. His fingers dug into wet earth and he swayed where he knelt, trying to force himself back to his feet.

“ _Fils de salop!_ ” Clint swore, crouching beside Steve. He could feel the soldier’s body thrumming with tension and adrenaline. A piercing howl rent the air and Clint’s head jerked to the side. He swore again, a string of curses so profane that Steve had the insane urge to admonish the man before hands were sliding up his arms and hauling him back to his feet. “Straight. Go straight, Stark.”

“But-“ Steve tried to clear his head, pressing a hand to his side and feeling the pulse of blood still oozing freshly. Clint turned Steve bodily and pushed. 

“Fuckin’ run!  Straight to the edge. I’ll catch up, now go!” Clint shouted and Steve stumbled forward with the shove until his feet caught up and he was off running. Clint stood there, watching Steve’s back disappear for only a second before the flash of a knife  appeared in his hand and he turned towards the baying pack of dogs with a grim expression.

And so Steve ran as straight as he could, weaving around the trees he could barely see, wincing as branches tore at his clothes, his hair and the unprotected skin of his face.

“Why?” he asked, wasting precious breath on a sob of agony. “Why is this happening?”

~

“Why are you acting like this?” Steve bit out. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Because you’re a fucking faggot,” Bucky spat hoarsely, unable to even bring himself to look at his brother. Steve who stood, pale and rooted, in the doorway of the hospital room could only clench his fists at his sides.

“Buck,” he tried again, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Can’t we talk about this? Ladies, if you-“

“Don’t you dare talk to them!” Bucky shouted and a machine went wild at his bedside. Natasha went to press a hand to Bucky’s shoulder and the man shuddered. Lorraine just watched with a wry twist of her lips, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“I’m still the same person, Bucky,” Steve said softly, pressing a hand over his eyes to wipe away the burn of tears. “I’m still your br-“

“You. Are not. My brother,” Bucky growled. “You’re queer and a nigger-lover. You’re going to run our goddamn name into the dirt for some backwater, nigger-loving trash like Carter and you claim you’re _family_ to me?! He tried to kill me! No, we aren’t family, Steve.”

“You started that fight, Bucky!” Steve shouted back. “You started that fight and you were going to kill Tony.”

“And his nigg-“

“Stop it! Stop saying that word! You’re better than this, Bucky. I _know_ you are,” Steve stepped forward despite the warning glares from the others. Both women retreated a step. “It doesn’t have to be like this! The company, I-I got it up and running again. It’ll be making money for us. It’ll thrive. The town’ll-“

“It’s done, _Rogers_ ,” Bucky turned his face away, glare drilling a hole in the wall.

“W-what?” Steve blinked. “What’s done? Bucky, what did you do?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched and the women wouldn’t meet his searching gaze. The door opened behind them.

“Oh good,” Hammer drawled. “You’re here, _Mr. Rogers_. That just made this easier. If you could put your hands behind your back now without a fuss… I’m sure you’d like some dignity as I walk you out of here.”

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice broke, but his brother refused to look. The discolored face was still turned resolutely away from him in condemnation. Steve’s chest ached and he had to clench his teeth against the tears that immediately threatened to spill as he understood. He straightened, righting the sit of his coat. “I see,” and couldn’t quite hide the wretched quality of his voice. It held the breaking of his heart, the betrayal of his brother that he loved so much. “I hope… I hope you take care of yourself, James, and the company. Don’t let it suffer just because… Just because. The town needs it.”

Steve turned then, chin raising as he eyed the smirking Deputy. He offered his hands, pushed together at the wrists. Hammer shrugged and snapped the cuffs into place. He gripped Steve by the elbow and led him back out into the hospital hallway and towards the entrance doors where a crowd already seemed to be gathered.

Steve was not surprised to see Stane at the head.

“-arnes-Stark will make a full recovery, fear you not. As for his attacker, the nigger by the name of James Rhodes is well familiar to us, folks,” Stane was saying, grim and stone-faced to the gathered crowd of townsfolk. “We’ll go in and snatch him right up. He won’t be allowed to roam free after such a heinous act.”

“What about Carter?” someone asked in the middle.

“Oh,” Stane fairly purred. “We’ll bring him in too. After all, abetting a crime is just as bad as committing it, don’t you agree, Mr. _Rogers_? Law doesn’t take too kindly to niggers trying to kill a fine, upstanding gentleman like your brother. Then again, the law doesn’t take too kindly to you queers, either.”

Steve wanted to rip the Stane’s throat out as he turned to him with a smug grin.

“Queer!”

“That’s disgusting!”

“There was always something…”

Steve tuned it all out, watching as the townsfolk, men and women who’d fought for his company, fought to be his friends once upon a time, turned their backs on him and called him trash for something they would never bring themselves to understand. He was above that now. He couldn’t afford to let their hate get to him.

“I know my rights,” Steve demanded as Stane led him into the jail cell. “I want my lawyer.”

Stane sucked his teeth in mock-sympathy, sliding the barred door shut with a clang.

“That’s too bad, _Rogers_. You see, your lawyer already said he doesn’t want a thing to do with you and we’re fresh out of court-appointments here. I’ll be taking good care of you, _son_.”

“Sir, they’re ready,” Hammer called from the front of the station.

“Ah, well. I’m sorry to leave you so soon, but don’t worry. You’ll be reunited with your friends soon enough, _Rogers_ ,” Stane grinned, stepping back and settling his hat on his head as Steve surged forward against the bars. His fingers were white-knuckled in their grip.

“You can’t do this, Stane!”

“But I already have,” he replied cheerfully, boots clicking against the floor as he left.

“Stane!” Steve shouted, shaking and furious. His voice echoed back to him, the jailhouse empty and cold iron the only witness to his impotent anger.

“ _Merde_ , I thought he’d never leave,” came a minute later and Clint popped around the corner with a wide grin of his own. Around his finger, he swirled a ring of keys.

“Barton?” Steve blinked, confusion twisting his expression.

“Yo, not your usual fancy digs, is it?” Clint snorted as he came forward and began testing each key in the lock.

“What… How did you know?” Steve asked, hands sliding down the bars a little bit. “Wh- Tony, we have to warn Tony!”

“Shut up, we got this, _bougre_ ,” Clint muttered, trying another key. “Stane ain’t as smart as he thinks n’ Tony’s one step ahead of his bald ass any day o’ the week. He’s already meetin’ up with Rhodey n’ gettin’ underway. Had to fight ‘im off from comin’ for ya ‘imself, but I made ‘im see reason. He ain’t no good to you injured like he is n’ he’ll need the head start.”

“Tony’s gone?” Steve whispered, feeling a cold panic settled at the base of his spine. Clint glanced up at him and rolled his eyes.

“This world ain’t meant for you no more, Stark. You gotta choice ahead o’ you now n’ it’s which way you runnin’ as soon as I get you outta here.”

“Which way…” Steve echoed faintly.

“You goin’ North wit’ me or you goin’ on your own?” Clint asked then hummed happily as the lock disengaged and the cell door swung open.

“I want to go with Tony,” Steve said, arms lowering and gaze defiant. Clint was right. There was nothing for him here anymore with the townsfolk against him and Bucky… He swallowed and gave a sharp nod.

Clint’s mouth spread into a grin.

“Then come on, lover boy,” he said. “We’ve gotta make a quick stop before we go.”

~

Their quick stop had turned quickly into a nightmare as the mob set the first of the cabins on fire. Despite the muggy damp of the bayou, the cabins caught quickly. The smell of burning wood and skin rose high into the air and drove the dogs, already straining against their handlers, crazy with the thirst for carnage.

“All we want is Carter and his nigger!” Stane had shouted and then he’d spotted Steve and the rage had twisted the features of his face menacingly in the light of the fires. “Release the dogs,” he ordered with finality.

Steve had not been quick enough, but thankfully Clint had.

~

Steve didn’t stop running this time. Without Clint to help guide him, he was afraid of getting lost, getting turned around if he stopped. He couldn’t get lost this time. It would be life or death if he did. He only glanced behind himself once to see if Clint was following like he’d said, but all he could see was the dark outline of trees and, in the far off distance, fire.

The screams were gone, the dogs still howling, but even those were disappearing. Sharply, as if cut off one by one, and Steve knew that had to be Clint’s doing. Clint was risking his life again, buying Steve time to get further away.

His breath was coming in ragged pants, chest burning and sides screaming, and he couldn’t help but wonder what he did to deserve Clint’s help. The answer was immediate. It wasn’t him. It was Tony. Clint was doing this for Tony and the thought pushed Steve’s feet faster, letting the branches whip his face, letting the vines rip from the trees as he refused to get tangled.

He couldn’t let them down. He couldn’t give up, not when Tony was out there waiting for him. Not when Tony’s friends were risking their lives to help Steve when all of this had been Steve’s fault. He dashed the thought as soon as it came. There was no true fault but the way the world embraced a society of hate.

But no more. Steve wouldn’t pander to society anymore, not to anyone that would belittle the warmth of friendship simply because of the color of a person’s skin or the joy of love simply because of gender.

North, Clint had said. They were going North. North where Rhodey would be safer and they could find peace together.

That thought bloomed beautifully in Steve’s heart right as he broke through the tree line and slid down a steep slope into a river. A river too wide for Steve to see the other side in the dark and the burgeoning hope crushed to dust in the pit of his stomach. The water lapped around him and he hissed in pain as it washed against his wound. He turned, scrambling for purchase on the slippery bank.

“Damn it!” he growled, desperately seeking any kind of foothold in the dark to drag himself out of the water as quick as possible. He knew that there were animals as dangerous as the dogs behind him that slithered through the murky depths waiting for unwitting prey like him. He grabbed hold of an exposed root and pulled, trying to lift himself, but his side protested angrily as he stretched the torn muscles and he slipped back down the slope.

He allowed himself one moment to press his forehead to the slope, sucking in much-needed breaths. His entire body shook with the effort and strain and, as he went to try to pull himself up again, something brushed against his leg in the water. He stilled, mind immediately shying away from the instinctive knowledge of what it could have been.

“No,” he said, denial soft against the mud. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the strength in his shoulders start to give. He’d come so far. Hadn’t he? When would it be enough? The water rippled and panic seized him as the creature came into contact with him once more.

“Stark?!”

Steve’s head tilted up slowly at Clint’s voice, muscles tight and protesting. The soldier sounded too far away.

“Clint,” he said quietly, too terrified to make any sudden movements or to call out any louder. A light passed overhead and Steve thought he might have finally started crying. It was okay, though. There was no one to see. “C-Clint…”

_God, please._

The light swept over where Steve was hanging from the slope and Clint’s running steps were light in the grass as he skidded to a stop above Steve.

“Holy s-okay,” Clint said, dropping to his knees. He was covered in blood and Steve sincerely hoped it wasn’t his own. “Okay, listen to me, Steve. We’re gonna move you up real slow okay? We’re almost there, _bougre_. Just… Just don’t look behind you, okay?”

Steve could only nod slightly as Clint wiped his hand as best he could in the grass and then reached for Steve’s arm. He didn’t need to see the very real threat to know what was in the water with him.

“I’m gonna lift on three, okay, n’ you’re gonna slide real easy up the side,” Clint continued, low and smooth and very clearly trying to get Steve not to panic. Clint’s gaze went off to the side as he counted one and he swore viciously. There was always more than one. Steve knew immediately that they were pulling then and he pushed through the agony in his body just as Clint heaved up with all his own strength until the taller blonde could land on top of him, shivering.

But Clint didn’t give him time to rest, rolling Steve to the side as his light fell across the alligator that was silently watching them from a few feet away.

“Up. Go,” Clint said. “We’re gonna Huck Finn this shit and get the hell outta here. ‘Round the bend.”

Steve slowly climbed to his feet, swaying with exhaustion and backing away from the threat. His steps were uneven, his limbs faint in response.

“Steve, go!” Clint hissed. “I comin’ too, just watchin’ our backs. Go.”

They stayed that way, moving around the edge of the water as the alligator slowly stalked them, eyes gleaming every once in a while with the bob of Clint’s light. When the small boat came into view, Steve felt a wave of relief flood his senses and he staggered over.

“Easy in,” Clint warned, gripping Steve’s arm as he kept an eye on their predator. Once Steve was settled, he tried to keep the boat as steady as possible as Clint climbed in after him. There was bag strapped to the seat the soldier took and he rummaged through it, handing a canteen of fresh water over to Steve.

“Are you okay?” Steve asked, voice stuttering against his will.

“I’ll live. There’s a roll of bandages in there. Get some water in ya n’ get somethin’ on your side,” Clint rolled a shoulder, putting the bag at Steve’s feet and reaching out to take hold of the oars.

Steve did as he was told, putting the canteen back into the bag and working to cover his side as best as he could. When that was finished, he kept his hand pressed to it and slouched a little in the boat. The last thing he remembered hearing was the slice of the oars through the water and the quiet chirping of the wildlife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch   
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	16. Anthony

“ _Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man! Bake me a cake as fast as you can! Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with B, and put it in the oven for Baby and me!_ ”

Giggling drifted in the open window, carried on a fresh, flower-sweet breeze.

For a long moment, Steve drifted in blissful unawareness, then it all rushed back, pain pressing blunt fingers along his side. It wasn't as bad as it had been. When he moved, he could feel one or two stitches here and there. The rest was bandages.

He shifted, sat up a little, lifted his shirt – well, whoever's shirt it was – up a bit to see. Clean and white. There didn't appear to be any blood seeping through, so either it hadn't been as bad as he thought, or he'd been asleep for a long time.

He looked around.

The room reminded him of Tony's home in the bayou, the infrequent occasions he'd seen it.

“Hey, that ain't fair! I seen it first!”

“Did not! Ain't my fault you're too slow t'catch one li'l hopper!”

A scuffle and Steve was about to push up from the bed when a familiar voice cut in.

“Ey, ey, ey, _merde_. You kids. Ain't like that's the only frog in the damned place.”

“But-”

“ _Non, non, non_. But nothin'. You wanna hunt frogs, then hunt frogs. You wanna play pat-a-cake then do that. You can't do both at once, or this is what happens.”

Steve made it to the window in time to see Tony haul the kids apart by their collars.

“Now. Say you're sorry,” he drawled.

One, a little boy, folded his arms and grunted;

“ _Sor_ ry.”

The girl wouldn't budge. In fact she stuck her tongue out, still clinging to the frog, which she was probably half-killing.

“ _Dieu_. Fine. Then kiss and make up,” Tony said, shrugging.

“ _EW_!” they both chorused.

“Well, then?” Tony prompted, arching a brow at the girl.

“Fiiine. Sorry.”

“There, ain't so hard, is it?”

She sneered, but he let them both go and they took off, the poor frog held aloft in the little girl's hand. Then Tony's eyes slid to the window and he grinned.

Steve couldn't have fought the answering grin if he'd wanted to.

Tony slunk up onto the porch like a jaguar, his hands cupping the windowsill so he could push himself up into Steve's space and kiss him.

Oh, _yes_.

Steve's eyes fluttered closed, mouth opening to the kiss and he leaned further forward, tongue running along Tony's.

Tony eased back.

“Now, now,” he murmured. “You're injured.”

Steve eyed him.

“You're not,” he said, indicating Tony's head, which was free of its bandage.

Tony made a low sound.

“Still tender,” he said, touching the back of his skull. “But it wasn't a good look. And you've been asleep a while, _cher_.”

“How long?” Steve wondered.

A laconic shrug, like Tony didn't know really, or didn't care. Steve thought probably both. And he realised he didn't really care either, not when faced with the lazy roll of those strong, bared shoulders.

Lord, he was behaving like a lovesick teen.

He cleared his throat and looked away. Tony smirked like he could read Steve's mind.

“You up to a walk, Stevie?” he asked.

Steve nodded and Tony stepped back from the window.

“Come on, then,” he said with a grin.

Steve tugged at the shirt, tucked his hands into his pockets and left the little house. The air wasn't as sticky as he remembered it. They were surrounded by towering pines instead of cypress and tupelo trees. A breeze ruffled Steve's hair and a few steps took them to the edge of a glittering lake.

“Where are we?” he wondered.

“It doesn't have a name,” Tony replied. “It's... there aren't a lot of settlements nearby. We have to travel a day and a half to get supplies.”

Steve glanced back over his shoulder at the cluster of cabins. There were a lot of Negros milling about, but they weren't the only race. He watched the people move around for a few moments, then;  
  
“Are there Cajun here?”

Tony glanced at him in surprise, as though this was the last thing he expected. He made a low sound.

“A couple. One more now. Maybe two, if Clint decides to stay.”

Steve's eyes tracked back to him.

“But... the bayou... you...”

A shrug.

“I can live without it... if it means I don't have to live without you.”

Steve gaped at him, chest tight.

“Tony...”

“You can't go back to Heaven. You can't even go back to work in the same field. Word travels. I've ruined your life. It's safe here and I got to provide for you now. I understand if you don't want to have anything to do with me, but I'll make sure you're safe and I'll make sure you never go hungry and I'll make sure you have a roof over your head. You don't need to be worried 'bout any of that. I-”

“Tony,” Steve said again, firmer this time, cutting him off. “What makes you think I'd not want to have anything to do with you?”

Another shrug.

“I pushed you, and here's where it lead. I fought with your brother... It's my fault.”

Steve snorted.

“It was a joint effort. Anyway... he... he's not my brother any more and they took away my rights.” A long pause, then he added; “It's not like you made me queer. I... always was. It's not the first time I got... hot... for a man. And I never felt that way about a woman, even when I was... you know... _with_ her...” His ears went a bit red.

Tony smirked.

“D'you mean when you fucked her, Li'l Stevie?”

Now his face flamed.

“Tony,” he groaned.

“Such a delicate thing,” the Cajun purred, moving to be right where Steve liked him – in his space. “We'll cure you of that, _cher_.”

Tony dragged his nose up Steve's throat until he could press his mouth to the soft hollow behind jaw and ear, tongue curling against it. Steve swallowed.

“I...”

“ _Oui_ ,” Tony agreed, low and rough. “You, Stevie. _You_. _Dieu_ , the things I want to do to you...”

“Is it...” Steve whispered breathlessly, pulling away, looking around. “We can't...”

Tony shook his head a little.

“It's alright. Here. They're all... different.”

“I... want...” Steve said haltingly, his eyes dragging down Tony's form.

“I know. I know. _Aller._ ” Tony didn't need to translate for him, because the tug of his waistband was enough to get him moving. Tony lead him back to the house they'd left, and kicked the door shut behind them.

Steve's heart was so high in his throat, he thought he would cough, but then Tony kissed him, and the familiar slide of tongue against tongue was calming. Well. Or something.

“Tony...” he whispered, feeling his breath hitch across Tony's mouth. Tony's smirking mouth. Tony's chuckling mouth.

“You. Are so adorable,” Tony purred.

Deft fingers brushed deliberately up Steve's fly to the last button of his shirt, undoing it easily. He slid his fingers between the shirt flaps, their tips brushing abdomen as he drew them up to the next button, and the next, undoing each with a skilled twist of finger and thumb.

“Anth-” Steve started, but Tony kissed him again and he fell easily into it, a slow burn more intense than anything he'd felt before burgeoning deep in his gut.

He was almost unaware of Tony guiding them to the bed, until the other man eased him down on it, stretching over him. One hand slid beneath his knee and lifted slightly. It only took Steve a moment to get the message and bend the knee, his thigh cradling Tony's side.

Then Tony was kissing him again, the slow slide of his fingers and methodical undoing of buttons continuing until the shirt was completely undone and he could push it open. His hands curved around Steve's waist, thumbs pointing towards his navel and he sat up a little to ease his gaze down Steve's form. His eyes lingered momentarily on the dressing taped to the blonde's side. He hesitated.

“No,” Steve said, reaching up to catch Tony's jaw and turn his gaze back to his own. “No, don't worry about it. I'm fine.”

“But-”

“Please.”

Tony pushed his shirt further open, shaking his head slowly as his eyes dragged across Steve's pectorals.

“ _Dieu_ ,” he whispered. “How are you so perfect, when you're such a spoiled brat?”

Steve laughed, grinning ear to ear.

“Thanks. Thanks for that, really,” he said.

Tony grinned back, tracing his fingers up Steve's abs, and further, until he could stroke teasingly at a nipple. Steve sucked in a breath and arched.

“No, but I mean it...  Most of your kind are soft. Soft bellies, soft arms, soft-”

“Heads?” Steve offered, one brow lifting. He sat up, jostling Tony, one hand fisting in his singlet at the small of his back. “I never was like the rest of them, was I?”

Tony shook his head, grinning.

“ _Non_. You never were.”

He kissed Steve again, bore him back down to the bed once more. He shifted his body, pressed his hips up and forwards in a delicious roll against Steve's. The blonde gasped into the kiss. Tony just plunged his tongue deeper.

Steve's eyes slid shut and he dragged at the fist full of singlet, towing it up Tony's torso, baring his midriff. Tony chuckled low and wouldn't move his arms, so it stayed stuck where it was. Grumbling, Steve had to satisfy himself with dragging his fingers across Tony's lower back, down to the waistband of his jeans, then back up again to slide under the white material.

“ _Permettez-moi de vous apporter eveille, cher_ ,” Tony murmured, dragging his mouth away from Steve's mouth to his throat, his tongue a hot, delicious curl in the hollow of the same.

“What?” Steve whispered. “Please. English.”

A gutteral laugh.

“Let me bring you awake,” Tony translated. “Let me show you what it's really like.”

Steve almost whined. He fisted his hands in the sheets as Tony's tongue wended its way to his collarbones.

“How do you know I haven't-”

“With girls, _oui,_ you said. You've also told me it never felt like _this_.” To punctuate the final word, he pressed his palm in a heavy stroke across Steve's fly. Steve choked, tossing his head back. “Ah,” Tony breathed, dragging his tongue up the now-exposed throat again. “ _Vous voyez_? You see? My Li'l Stevie...”

He did see. And feel. Tony was absolutely right.

“Y-yes. I see...” Steve whispered. He huffed out a breath of pleasure as Tony once more dragged his lips in open-mouthed kisses down the hollow of his throat, between his collar bones and between his pectorals. He licked is way across to a nipple, curling his tongue against it, catching it with his teeth.

Steve brought the back of his hand to his mouth and a tremulous moan eased from his throat.

“Don't do that,” Tony whispered, reaching up to draw Steve's hand away. “Don't muffle those pretty sounds, _cher_.”

Steve slid the hand into Tony's hair instead, but the man hissed, jerking away.

“Oh. Damn. Sorry!” Steve said, laughing a little.

Tony grinned wryly.

Warm, strong hands eased up the insides of his thighs, pushing them apart before the thumbs ran up their inseams, all the way to seam that joined the two legs where they began to rub.

“Oh, _god_ ,” Steve husked, his hips lifting of their own accord.

“Not quite,” Tony murmured, smirking his way down the arrowed bones of Steve's hips-to-pelvis line to mouth at his fly.

Now he cursed, hips bucking. But Tony held him down.

“To _ny_ ,” Steve bit out, reaching down, dragging at the singlet. “Unfair.”

Tony's laugh was liquid cacao and he left off a minute to sit up and peel off his singlet, then his hands came to Steve's pants, undoing them and pulling them down and off, along with his underthings so he lay there, gloriously nude.

“Still unf-” Steve started, but Tony pushed over him, dragging a thigh between his legs and kissing him again. He couldn't get enough of kissing the blonde, it seemed. Steve's hips pushed up against the thigh, completely unconsciously.

“Oh, ho,” Tony purred against his mouth. “Waking up, indeed.”

Steve flushed and lowered his hips, but Tony pushed forwards, dragging the thigh across Steve's flesh. Steve arched again, helpless.

Tony kissed him until they were both breathless, panting. Then he was gone again, kissing a hot path down Steve's already overheated skin. His mouth found Steve's length, lips pressing to the tip, then his tongue rolled out, dragging against the underside of the head.

Steve cursed. Well. He said “dammit”.

“Oh, _cher_ ,” Tony laughed softly. “You're gonna have to learn better than that.”

Steve laughed too, breathless, giddy. His hand came into Tony's hair again, this time at the side so he wouldn't touch the sore spot.

“Please... don't stop...” Steve whispered.

Tony's grin was a tiger's. He closed his mouth around Steve again, lips, tongue and teeth all working to draw more strangled sounds out of the other man's throat. Steve's fingers flexed in Tony's hair.

“T-Tony...” he said after a time, strained and breathless. “A-anthony. I can't... I... I'm...”

Tony hummed and left off, sliding up Steve's body again.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “You're so beautiful.”

Steve panted softly across Tony's mouth, his fingers threading into the dark hair. His eyes were trusting, blown with pleasure and he rocked his hips up towards the other man's out of sheer instinctive desire.

“P-Please...” he whispered, only vaguely aware of what he was asking for.

“Mmm,” Tony agreed. “Here, _cher_. Roll over.”

Steve hesitated a moment.

“Trust me,” Tony added. “It'll be easier, especially with your side. And I can see what I'm doing. Make sure you're okay.”

Steve swallowed, nodded, and turned over, Tony lifting onto his hands and knees to make room. Tony dragged a pillow down to tuck beneath Steve's hips and reached into his jeans pocket, then undid them and slid them off. He uncorked the bottle he'd withdrawn and coated his hand liberally, then bent his head, mouthing warmly between Steve's flexing shoulder blades. The blonde sighed, relaxing, and Tony mouthed his way down the long – long, long – spine to the hollow of his back.

“Trust me,” Tony said again. “Might feel a bit weird.”

Steve nodded, then his breath hitched when he felt Tony's mouth on his tailbone, licking and kissing. It was good. Tony shifted, bringing the bottle up to drizzle more of the oil between Steve's legs. He caught it on his fingertips, rubbing against the blonde's entrance.

“Oh,” Steve said tremulously, fisting his hands in the pillows. “Oh, that's...”

Tony laughed softly.

“I told you,” he said, putting the bottle on the side table and sitting up a little so he could see what he was doing. He kissed one rounded cheek, nipped it, making Steve hiss through a grin. Then he carefully began to press one finger within the other man.

“Oh. Oh. T-Tony,” Steve whispered, tensing up a little.

“Hush. Hush. Relax, it'll go easier.”

Steve didn't feel like it could. But he nodded and tried to relax. He found after a short time, that it did go easier, and there was a certain slow burn to the in-out of Tony's finger that he enjoyed immensely. Eventually, a low moan clawed from his throat and Tony added a second finger. After a while longer, a third, and soon Steve was rolling on the bed, hands twisted in the sheets and pulling him up it only to rock back into Tony's fingers again like a wave lapping at the shore.

“Oh, my Li'l Stevie...” Tony breathed, watching muscle flex and shift under sweat-damped skin. “ _Cher_... _vous etes belle_...”

He knew what 'belle' meant, at least. He flushed a little.

“Girls are beautiful.”

“Oh, no. No, no, _cher_. You're more beautiful than all the girls in all the world in an entirely different way.”

Steve wanted to protest again, but then Tony was kissing open-mouthed at the small of his back, a gentle counterpoint to the white-hot burn of the man's fingers deep within him, and he could only moan instead.

He rubbed his cheek into the pillows, perfect hair mussed and damp, perfect face flushed with pleasure, perfect body pliant and willing beneath Tony, and the Cajun knew; he would give up a thousand bayous and a thousand homes and a thousand familiar things if it meant he could always have this. He drew his fingers free and Steve's lips parted to whine, but he only chuckled, sliding up his body to fit himself against it. One hand curled around Steve's throat, fingers cupping his jaw and turning his head so Tony could kiss that protesting mouth.

Beneath him, Steve trembled, combined fear and need that Tony well understood.

“Shh...” he soothed him, fingers gentle where they held his face and throat. “ _Dieu_ , Steven. Stevie, say you're mine.”

Steve's breath left him in a huff, Tony's fingers hot and firm at his jaw and against his waist, curving towards his navel. For a moment, his thoughts skittered fearfully, then;

“Yes, Tony. Yes. Yours. I'm-”

Tony cut him off, kissing him again, tongue pressing deep and possessive, and so, so hot Steve could hardly believe it. He made a low, kittenish sound and Tony chuckled.

“Do you want more, _cher_?”

“I don't think I can bear more...” Steve whispered.

“Oh... of course you can, dear one...”

Tony pressed his hips down against the swell of Steve's behind, the solid weight of his length settling between the cheeks before he began to rock slowly.

“Oh,” Steve said, eyelids fluttering.

“Yes?” Tony murmured.

“Yes. Yes,” Steve echoed.

Tony smiled and lifted himself enough that he could get a hand between them, slicking his length before positioning himself carefully.

“Easy...” he murmured, holding Steve's hip steady and giving a calming rub then beginning to press forwards.

Steve made a low, choked sound, his grip on the sheets intensifying. Tony gave small, shallow thrusts, each taking him a little deeper than the last. Steve pressed his face into the pillows, gasping.

Fully seated, Tony stilled, giving his quivering lover time to adjust, once more curling his hand around throat and jaw, the other supporting himself against the bed just below one of Steve's biceps.

“Please...” Steve whispered. “ _S'il vous plait_...”

Tony gave a breathless bark of fond laughter at that, and who was he to deny it? He began to move, his whole body dragging against Steve's with each thrust. Tony used the hand around Steve's jaw to turn his head again so he could kiss him, tongue running against the other man's. A low whine eased from Steve's throat and it wasn't long before his body was moving to meet Tony's.

It was like nothing he'd ever felt before. He'd fumbled around on a couple of occasions with high-class courtesans his friends in London felt compelled to buy for him and, while it hadn't been unpleasant, it hadn't been anything like this. This high-flung burn that felt like it would consume him, shuddering out through his body and up his spine with each roll of Tony's hips.

The Cajun's hands were hot against his skin, shifting slightly with each combined roll of their bodies, and the one around his throat felt fantastically possessive. Tony's breath ruffled his hair at the base of his skull, his tongue dragging every so often at the nape of his neck.

“Oh, my Li'l Stevie...” he whispered.

“Tony...” Steve whispered back, hips lifting. “O-Oh...”

The hand at Steve's waist slid around and down, fingers curling about the man's length and beginning to stroke in time with Tony's thrusts. Steve whined long and low, shuddering head to toe and he couldn't hold on much longer. He felt reason leaving him. Control leaving him. Everything leaving him but his awareness of Tony.

And then even that whited out as his release broke over him, swallowing him in a blinding tide of pleasure. Above him, Tony moaned, said his name rough, and followed him.

By the time Steve came back to himself, Tony had withdrawn and carefully cleaned them both off with a cloth from the side table. He was just sliding back onto the bed, arranging the sheet over their hips. Steve snuggled in against him, one arm curling over his shoulders.

“Tony...” he murmured. “Thank you...”

Tony smiled, his brown eyes soft, amused, fond.

“You. Are _most_ welcome, _cher_ ,” he purred.

Steve gave an answering smile. He was silent for a long while, watching Tony begin to drift off. Then again;

“Tony? ...Anthony?”

“Mmm...?”

“I love you.”

Tony's eyes flickered open, wide and caught off-guard for once. He opened his mouth, but nothing seemed to come. Steve shifted a little, beginning to blush.

“You don't have to-”

Tony put a hand to his mouth, shaking his head. He smiled.

“My Li'l Stevie. _Je te aime aussi;_ I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch   
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


	17. Epilogue - Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. We hope you enjoyed our story.

_Several months later…_

“That box can burn,” Tony said, stretching back from the bonfire he’d lit, hands in the dirt and face tipping towards the twilight sky.

“You didn’t even look to see what was in this one,” Steve replied, amusement coloring his tone as he set the box down beside the Cajun. He crouched behind Tony and kissed his upturned nose. “At least check it first.”

“I don’t need to check it, _cher_ ,” Tony shrugged and lifted one hand backwards to ruffle through Steve’s hair. “I know exactly what’s in there and it ain’t worth a damn thing except takin’ up space.”

Steve hummed a little, slipping down to his knees to tug Tony back to his front as he slid his arms around his waist.

“You know Clint went through a lot to bring back what he could,” he murmured, brushing his nose against Tony’s hairline, kissing his ear softly. He smiled as he felt Tony shiver faintly. “The least you can do is check the damn thing.”

“I think I liked it better when you were a blushin’ damsel, Li’l Stevie,” Tony complained and Steve could only laugh, squeezing him just a bit tighter.

“Be thankful he was able to bring you anything at all,” Steve said softly.

Tony was silent for a moment and his fingers squeezed Steve’s arm.

“Did he have any news on your brother?”

“Yeah,” Steve swallowed, tucking his face in the crook of Tony’s neck.  “Bucky’s got the logging company still running. Apparently he took to it with a vengeance. Clint talked to Logan and he said the company was getting back up to speed slowly, but surely.”

“And how _is_ Bucky?” Tony wondered, fidgeting slightly. “Did he make a full recovery?”

“Bucky is engaged to Natasha,” Steve’s voice was thick with emotion and Tony ached for his loss. “He has a limp that might have been from a little spinal damage stemming from the brain. Clint said Buck looked happy though. That’s… That’s all that matters, right? That he’s happy.”

“ _Oui_ ,” Tony twisted a bit and pressed a kiss to Steve’s brow. “Maybe someday you could…”

Steve listened to Tony trail off and hugged his lover tighter. He didn’t want to think of what never could be. He would always, always miss Bucky, but he couldn’t abide the hatred in his brother’s heart. It was bittersweet and, in time, he hoped its burden would lessen. He took a steadying breath and lifted his face.

“What’s in the box, darling?”

Tony groaned and pulled away to sit up and drag the box closer.

“A bunch of nothin’,” he muttered, flicking useless things in the flames. Work notes. Scribbled messages between him and Rhodey. A picture frame with his mother’s faded smile peeking through cracked glass. He hesitated, carefully picking the photo out without spilling glass everywhere before the frame, too, fed the fire.

“She was always very beautiful,” Steve murmured as he looked at the picture over Tony’s shoulder.

“ _Ouais_ ,” Tony murmured, twisting to whistle at Rhodey who was heading towards the porch.

“You’re four feet from the porch, Tones,” Rhodey said dryly, speaking much clearer now that they weren’t around people who constantly expected you to be some dumb animal. “Whatever you want, get it yourself.”

“Oh, _cher_. Don’t be like that, baby,” Tony grinned, waving the photo. “Just put this on the table, _oui_?”

Steve plucked the photo from Tony’s fingers and handed it to Rhodey over his shoulder. Rhodey swiped his thumb over Peggy’s face and smiled softly.

“Anythin’ for your mama,” he replied and headed up the porch. Clint hip-checked him on his way past, finger catching in Rhodey’s belt loop briefly before letting him go. Rhodey’s gaze lingered on him for the same brief moment before he disappeared inside.

Steve ducked his head to hide his ridiculous grin against Tony’s hair.

“What’s so funny, _cher_?” Tony asked quietly, still picking through the box now that Steve had gotten him started.

“Nothing at all. I’m just happy,” Steve sighed. “Enormously so.”

“ _C’est_ _b-_ oh,” Tony’s voice turned distant, confused and Steve picked his head up to see what had been the cause. Tony’s hands framed an envelope that sparked a distant memory for Steve.

_Anthony Carter_ was scrawled in hasty, fancy script across the heavy vellum.

“That’s fro-“ he began before Tony shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter,” the Cajun said and went to toss the envelope in the fire. Steve caught his hand.

“Wait, have you read it? What does it say?” Steve asked, a bit hesitant because this was a private thing and he didn’t want to overstep any line he could see that obviously had Howard on the other side.

“I haven’t and it doesn’t matter,” Tony repeated with another shrug, this one too loose, too easy to be real.

“Tony…” Steve trailed off, thumb stroking over Tony’s where it pinned the envelope. “What if it-“

“What if it does? What does that change?” Tony asked seriously. “Nothin’. It changes nothin’ and I’m good with that. I don’t need to read what he wrote to know that I’m where I want to be for the rest of my life.”

Steve’s chest felt full with affection and he buried his face in Tony’s throat.

“Will you regret it later, if you burn it now?” he asked, lips brushing over Tony’s pulse.

“No, because no matter what… I'll still have you,” Tony said after a long moment. “Nothin’ will ever change that, _cher_.”

“Nothing ever could,” Steve agreed. He let his hand slide down Tony’s arm, resettling it around Tony’s waist.

They were silent, listening to the background noise of the children chirping with the night crickets and the slangs of different dialogues buzzing over other small fires. It was peaceful. It was safe. Steve watched the dancing flames consume the paper. It was home.

Neither of them tried to peek at the burning words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cajun/French Glossary (We apologize for any mistakes)
> 
> bougre -buddy; pal  
> ca c’est bon -That’s good  
> casse-toi -Bugger off; fuck off  
> ca va -That’s enough  
> cher (pronounced by Tony as ‘sha’ with a as in apple) -dear; term of endearment  
> étranger -stranger; outsider  
> feet pue tan -You goddamn son-of-a-bitch (loosely)  
> fils de salop -Son-of-a-bitch  
> fit-putain -Son-of-a-whore; son-of-a-bitch   
> le garcon -boys  
> mais oui -But yes  
> merde -Shit  
> mo chagren -I’m sorry  
> mon cher -my dear  
> ouai -Yeah  
> pauve ti bête -Poor little thing  
> putain -most commonly means ‘whore’ but is used as ‘fuck’ in this instance  
> vous êtes magnifique -you’re magnificent


End file.
